


Pretty little Orc Lord

by Sijglind



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF!Bilbo, Battle of Five Armies, Dark, Hurt, M/M, Orc Lords can only be paid in severed heads, Recovery, Stockholm Syndrome, Tattoos, Thilbo, bagginshield, brief mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:05:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After defending Thorin, Bilbo is captured by Azog, who is intrigued by the small, yet courageous creature. So much so, that the Pale Orc makes the Hobbit his mate, and Bilbo spends four months in the Misty Mountain's Orc caves while the rest of his company resume their journey, convinced the Hobbit is no longer alive. But when Azog leaves to kill the King under the Mountain and conquer Erebor, Bilbo manages to flee and reunite with his former companions.<br/>The Dwarves, of course, are delighted to see their burglar again, however, they realize soon enough that Bilbo Baggins of Bag End would never return completely, and in his stead an Orc Lord came to their gates.</p><p>Eventually bagginshield.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=852422#t852422">Full Prompt on LJ</a><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first Tolkien fanfic (i really tried to resist), and I blame tumblr and Peter Jackson and the kmeme for this. I want to apologize in advance, because there are some holes in my knowledge of Middle Earth lore, since I have only read The Hobbit and LOTR and seen the movies (several times) so far.  
> Sadly, this is also unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you will like it.

  
 

When Bilbo sat in the hall of his hobbit hole and listened to the dark, melodic voices of the Dwarves singing of mountains and long lost treasures, something Tookish began to stir awake in him, whispering sweetly of adventure and tales to be told. Of a Hobbit that was not quite a burglar, but had left the tranquil security of the warm and friendly shire to hunt dragons and treasure and help the King under the Mountain reclaim his rightful throne.

He had tried to ignore the soft voice in his mind, because he was _a Baggins of Bag End_ , and a respectable Hobbit as himself – Took blood or not – would not run off on something as preposterous and pointless as an adventure, jeopardising the comfort of a soft bed, warm hearth and seven meals a day in the process. No, Bilbo would not run off with Gandalf and the Dwarves, not for any gold in the world, however big the promised share would turn out to be in the end, thank you very much.

However, when he was laying beneath his thick blanket on his soft bed, hugging his hand-embroidered pillow, he could not find the peace of sleep, and it was not the loud snoring of his guests – as much as it was shaking the foundations of his little home, threatening to bring it down and bury the lot of them beneath it – that kept him awake. No, it was the memory of a song echoing in his mind, of deep voices sad with loss but full of hope and determination, that brought his little heart to beat violently and far too fast in his small chest and made him wonder how the grass smelled and the water tasted and the birds sang behind the borders of the Shire. When finally he drifted into a deep slumber, Bilbo dreamed of wide plains and dark, endless caverns filled with piles of glinting gold deep down in the belly of a mountain.

 

 

Later, when he would be curled in on himself on soft furs, and his body ached with all kinds of pain, the presence of the massive, stinking figure next to him too much to handle, he would think back to that night he sat in the hall of his warm hobbit hole, listening to the dark, melodic voices of the dwarves singing of mountains and long lost treasures, he would sob silently and wish he had never heard them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short, and it is merely a kind of prologue, the following chapters will most likely be longer.


	2. Chapter 2

 

In the end, he did not know what had been the reason he had moved. Maybe it was the way Dwalin screamed his King's name, so full of sorrow and dread – more the howl of a wounded animal than anything else – when he tried desperately to climb off the tree but slipped and grabbed the fragile looking branch in the last moment before he could fall and be swallowed by the valley deep below them.

Or maybe it was because of the things Thorin had said when he thought the Halfling could not hear him – and at some times when he knew he could. The belittling accusations  the King had spoken against him had hurt Bilbo more than he would have thought, gnawing on his pride with sharp teeth and rousing a wish in him to prove himself to the Dwarven King and his companions. Hobbits might be a simple, peaceful folk, sharing a deep love for food, pipe weed and things that grew – and a distaste towards anything close to adventure – but they were no cowards. And what better way was there to prove so than in saving Thorin's life?

It did not matter what brought him to do what he did at the edge of the cliff that night. All that mattered were the consequences, the way his bravery was repaid.

His nimble feet carried Bilbo swiftly over the tree's wide trunk. He didn't even feel the branches tugging at his trousers and leaving thin red marks on the uncovered skin of his shins, too focused as he was on the scenery taking place in front of him – the warg, pale as its master, closing its jaws around the Dwarf, the way it flung its prey in a wide arch when Thorin lashed out at the broad head with his sword, the command the Pale Orc growled, followed by one of his Hunters slipping off his mount and walking slowly towards the sprawled out form of the King under the Mountain.

The roar of the fire around Bilbo faded, drowned by the Hobbit's quick breathing and the blood rushing in his ears. His sword, as small as it was compared to others, was still a considerable weight for the untrained halfling, and he nearly stumbled, but caught himself before he leaped and threw himself with a wordless cry against the Orc looming over Thorin.

Considering Bilbo was nearly as light as he was small, it was only due to the orc's surprise that he managed to throw the monster to the ground. They struggled for a moment with each other, and he parried the Orc's swing of his mace only by a hair's breadth before he buried his blade to the hilt in its stomach, dark blood leaking out of the wound and over his fingers. The Orc exhaled his last breath with a Hobbit of the Shire straddling him, the least likely creature to bring someone's life to an end. But here he was, a Baggins of Bag End, hands covered in blood and the still form of an Orc beneath him. However, there was no time for celebration.

Thorin, and with him Bilbo, were still in danger, and he stumbled to his feet, positioning himself between the Dwarf and the group of Orcs and their wargs, which were growling and baring their teeth at the strange little creature. Bilbo swung his sword around in an attempt to appear more impressive and hopefully frightening, knowing he most likely failed at it, since there was something close to amusement glinting in the Pale Orc's even paler eyes.

They were staring at the hobbit, piercing and rattling his nerves with something Bilbo did not want to perceive in them, for it was so much more dreadful to find himself at the other end of this particular gaze than of one filled with bloodlust. There was a very different kind of lust burning in Azog's eyes.

The Orc chief said something in his vile tongue, his voice like gravel grinding over metal, and it made Bilbo's hair stand on end, as if the weak feeling in his knees would not have been bad enough. But relief was soon to come in form of his Dwarven companions, charging at the Orcs with a war cry before they could carry out the command.

Instantly, Bilbo found himself in the midst of a chaotic battle, stumbling around and doing his best to dodge the blades and hammers cutting through the air around him, delivering some well-placed blows to the Orcs and their mounts himself. But he had lost track of where he was and did not notice in which direction he had been pushed by the fighting around him until he took a step backwards and bumped into something big and hard, covered in rough, tangled fur he could feel brushing against his calves.

He was not fast enough, did not react in time to whirl around and see the white monstrosity of an Orc, could not run away and bring himself out of reach before the metal claws dug into his side, piercing skin and dragging a startled squeal of pain from the hobbit's lungs.

Bilbo was very unfortunate indeed, for none of his companions had heard him scream over all the noise, and the following sobs of agony were breathless and too silent for anyone but Azog to notice. The halfling's vision blackened at the edges and his trembling hands closed around the thin metal arm, trying to loosen the relentless grip, but to no avail. The Pale Orc bared his teeth in a crude grin that was more a ferocious snarl, the blatant hunger in his eyes sending an icy cold finger dragging down Bilbo's spine, and he shook violently what only worsened the sharp pain in his side.

Suddenly there was the screech of eagles, and a large shadow passed over them, accompanied by the sound of great wings, followed by fearful screams of Orcs and Dwarfs alike. Azog looked up at the sky and let out a low growl before he barked a rasp order at his hunters. Bilbo was too weak to look up and see what was happening, feeling his strength fading slowly.

Maybe it was better that way, because if he could have lifted his head, he would have seen the Great Eagle soaring towards him through the sky, claws spread and ready to grasp at him and tear the Hobbit away from the orc's grip. But Azog was too swift and pulled him away, so that the talons barely touched him, only slicing through the back of his jacket, leaving a red line in their wake. It would have been far too hard on the Halfling to see that he had nearly escaped the cruel promises Azog's eyes made, and later find himself still being at the orc's non-existent mercy.

For now, there was nothing Bilbo could do but to give in to the leaden pressure of his eyelids until he was plunged into darkness.

 

 

As for the others, they did not notice that their burglar was missing when the eagles put them down softly atop the Carrock. Too great was the worry for their King, laying limply on the ground, unsettlingly still, so that nobody thought of counting the members of their company to make sure none had been left behind.

Gandalf hurried over to Thorin as soon as he was set down on the eyot and sank to his knees, while behind him the rest of the company arrived. The Dwarves crowded around the wizard and their King, holding their breath in worry and awe alike as they watched the spark of life return to him.

It was not until Thorin opened his eyes and breathlessly whispered, “the Hobbit” that they realized they were one Halfling short.

“Where is Bilbo?” Gandalf demanded and turned round and round, hoping to find him hiding behind one of the Dwarves. But his hopes were shattered when he could not find the familiar small form of the Hobbit anywhere, and his heart suddenly felt so much heavier. “Where is the Hobbit?” he asked again, but it was quiet and more to himself than anyone else.

“We have to find him,” Kili blurted immediately and took a step forwards before he remembered his place and glanced cautiously towards his uncle, who had remained thoughtfully silent during the whole commotion, a line of sorrow appearing between his eyebrows. Bofur continued in the young princes' stead, “aye, we have to go back. Maybe he is still there and the Eagles have simply not seen him, small as he is, our burglar.”

Some of the Dwarves nodded in agreement, since the argument was reasonable. As it turned out, the situation was as they had dreaded, but not dared to voice aloud.

“That is not the case, I can assure you,” a voice above them suddenly spoke, a sharp screech. Two of the eagles had returned and landed next to them on the Carrock, ruffling their feathers, heads held high. “What do you know, Gwaihir?” the Wizard asked quickly, and the great bird seemed to feel affronted by the demand in Gandalf's voice. He clacked twice with his beak and blinked offended, but provided, “my Brother saw the one you call Bilbo.” The other eagle bowed his head slowly as if to confirm what had been said. “Well, where is he then?” Fili asked when no further explanation came from the eagles, and they jerked their heads in his direction, feathers twitching. It was obvious the majestic birds were getting close to having enough of the company's disrespectful behaviour, especially since they had just rescued Gandalf and the Dwarves, what was clearly beneath their status.

This time Gwaihir's brother spoke. “He was with the Pale Orc, the one they call Azog.” There was a hiss of dread going through the row of Dwarves, followed by several shouts of _No!_ and _Bilbo!_

“I tried freeing him, but the white warg carried them swiftly into the forest and out of my reach,” the eagle continued, his tone slightly apologizing.

An agitated silence had spread over the group, heavy with grief, for they all feared the worst of fates had befallen their Burglar.

“Thank you,” Gandalf said to the two eagles and the smaller one bowed his head slowly again, but Gwaihir kept his high and proud, looking down at the wizard in front of him. “Do not get used to this, Mithrandir,” he remarked dryly before he flapped his wings and lifted off into the sky, closely followed by his brother.

For a terribly long moment, nobody said anything, everyone caught up in their own grim assumptions of the Hobbit's fate, their faces as sombre as their thoughts.

“What are we going to do?” Ori finally wailed and Dori slung an arm around his young brother's shoulders to comfort him and patted his upper arm while softly saying _there, there_ under his breath. “But what _are_ we going to do?” Kili asked again when nobody had said or done anything else than shifting around awkwardly on their feet.

“We are going back.” To their surprise, Thorin had spoken. His mien was grim and determined, and nobody dared to object, not even Balin, although they all knew the chances of seeing their Hobbit alive ever again were slim. The only thing they could do for now was to hope for the best and set forth for the cliff in unfamiliar silence.

 

 

The first thing Bilbo noticed upon waking was the stinging pain in his right side and the soreness in his limbs. The next thing he noticed where the deep, growling voices around him, snarling and grunting words he could not understand but sounded eerily familiar, but not in a good way. It was exactly the opposite, and the Hobbit was wide awake in an instant, scrambling away backwards, staring at the horrid, disfigured creatures in front of him with wide-eyed fear. But far too soon he found his path blocked by cold stone, and when he dared tearing his eyes away from the orcs, he saw that they were in a big cave, the ceiling high above them. Several tunnels led away from it, but they were pitch-black and Bilbo was reminded of the hole he had fallen into while struggling with the Goblin. The thought of the creature called Gollum crept to the front of his mind, but he willed it away.

He had enough to do with worrying about the group of Orcs as it was. They sat around a fire, several feet away from him, apparently laughing and talking with each other in their strange tongue that set the halfling's teeth on edge. It was only a small comfort – but a comfort nonetheless – that he did not see the pale, towering form of Azog amidst them.

Thinking back to the moment Azog's white eyes had bored into his, so piercing and burning with wanton desire, made him tremble violently although the Defiler was nowhere to be seen. He would not let him get near him again, not with so much hunger visible in his eyes. Bilbo did not want to think about what the Orc would do to him if he did not find away out of this situation soon.

And then it came to his mind – The Ring! His magic ring that let him wander unseen by others! Bilbo was delighted over having found a way out of this terrible mess that would not include the swinging of swords or other weapons. He would just slip the golden loop onto his finger and--

It was gone! His ring was not there. In fact, _nothing_ was there! When he patted along his body he found his chest was bare, no shirt, no vest, no jacket, nothing but a thin bandage wrapped around his waist and a soft, thick fur to cover his nakedness. At least they had left him his trousers, but it was no comfort at all since his escape plans had just crumbled to dust.

Panic, suffocating and impenetrable, closed around him, made his poor little heart beat hard against his ribcage until he thought the bones would give in and it would jump right out of his chest.

What was he going to do?

What if Azog returned before he could come up with another plan?

He did not want to--

He could not--

His breathing was shallow and dizziness took a hold of him, reduced the world around him to a hazy swirl of dim shadows and flickering fire.

For a moment, Bilbo wished he could simply let go and drift off, but then he reminded himself that it would be of little use to lose consciousness in a cavern filled with Orcs, even if they had not laid hand on him yet and had even tended to his wounds. Who knew what they planned to do to him? Maybe it was just a trick to make the Hobbit think himself safe so they could later on crush that believe, turning the whole ordeal into something so much crueller.

No, he would not let his guard down, would not give up so easily. Bilbo was convinced he just had to hold out a bit longer until Gandalf and the Dwarves would come to rescue him from his captors' grip.

He could only hope it would not take them too long.

 

 

After some time which Bilbo had spent in quiet musings, carefully avoiding to make too much noise and draw the Orcs' attention towards him, his luck ran out, and one of the Orcs rose to walk over to him. Seeing the creature limping nearer, disfigured face held by two scars above his upper lip in a continuously snarl that bared his pointy teeth at the world, the Halfling was brought back towards his earlier panic, and he drew his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible so maybe the Orc would not see him.

But of course he did not succeed in his attempts. The vile creature was walking straight towards the halfling, who pressed his back against the cold stone of the wall behind him, wishing he could slip right through it and run off, just away from the dimly-lit cavern and the hideous creatures.

Naturally, the Hobbit could do no such thing, and so he was left no other choice but to wait and see – or rather _not_ see, because his stomach churned whenever he dared looking at the numberless scars on the Orc's grey skin, for they told tales of torture, not battle, and he was forced to imagine what a creature so experienced in this certain field would do to him.

The Orc came to a halt a few steps in front him, and only now saw Bilbo the crudely carved wooden bowl in his hands – which, so he saw, missed a finger each.

“Eat,” the Orc growled guttural, and Bilbo was taken aback because he had not thought a single one of the Orc pack would be capable of Westron. “W-what?” the Halfling stammered before he could think better of it, and the creature repeated its command.

“Eat.”

“Oh no, thank you, I am not hungry,” Bilbo went on, barely noticing that his mind clung to such a needless thing as politeness, which was surely a waste used on an Orc. “I am fine, quite sated, in fact.”

He could not know what they had put in that bowl, even though it looked like a simple porridge from where he sat, peeking up. But he would not trust his first impression, because who knew what things Orcs liked to eat and how his stomach would react to it? And maybe it was even poisoned. No, the Hobbit thought, one could never be too careful.

But his treacherous body worked against him, making his stomach growl at his last words that _yes, he was indeed in no need of food_. However, Bilbo was still a Hobbit, and his stomach was undeniably used to seven meals – and the occasional snack in between – a day, and he was painfully reminded of the fact that he had not eaten anything since that evening in the cave before they had fallen into the Goblin Town. Maybe he should give it a try...?

The decision was taken away from him by the Orc crouching down in front of him and thrusting the bowl forward so that some of the porridge swapped over the rim and onto the fur Bilbo pressed to his chest in displaced modesty. Or maybe not so displaced at all, judging from the burning gaze he remembered Azog giving him.

“Eat,” the orc repeated a third time, more demanding than before, and the hobbit could tell he was getting irritated. Maybe it was better to just take the bowl and take a few spoons before the Orc felt the need to feed it to him by force.

So Bilbo set for a murmured thanks and accepted the bowl with still shaking fingers. Hesitantly, he took the first spoonful into his mouth and swallowed. It was actually not that bad – mostly tasteless and overcooked, but it could have been worse, and Bilbo had emptied half of the bowl before he noticed the Orc still crouched in front of him. He did not have the time to wonder what was expected of him before the creature spoke again, sending his rotten breath in Bilbo's direction, and he tried not to wrinkle his nose in disgust, since the stench of blood was rather persistent and did nothing for his appetite.

“All. Must be strong for later.” The Orc let out a gruesome cackle, and the poor little halfling lost the rest of his appetite in an instant.

The comment sunk heavy into his stomach and he suddenly regretted eating, because his mind was endlessly drawing images of different kinds, making it hard for him to breathe, to the extend that he saw black spots dancing in his vision.

Finally, the orc would leave him alone and Bilbo put down the bowl with shaking hands so not to spill the rest of the porridge as well. He tried taking a deep breath, concentrated on easing his breathing back into its normal rhythm and calming his heart, head rested against the stone at his back, eyes closed.

It took him some time, but he finally felt himself relaxing – as far as the circumstances allowed of course – and slowly drifted back into sleep.

 

 

He awoke later to someone shaking him roughly, and for the slightest of moments, he thought all had been a dream and one of the Dwarves was waking him to take over the watch.

But then he opened his eyes and found himself staring into small white pools full of hunger and violence, and everything came rushing back towards him – the fight, eyes as pale as their owner's skin, scrutinizing him as if he was a particular tasty piece of meat, the pain in his side caused by sharp metal claws piercing through skin and embedding themselves in flesh, and finally the words of the other Orc about strength for later and his ugly cackle.

Azog said something that he could not understand, but he was sure he really did not want to anyway, judging by the way his nails scratched over Bilbo's shoulder towards his neck in a way that was doubtlessly the closest the Pale Orc could get to gentle. Then his hand closed hard around the Halfling's neck and he pulled him to his feet, dragging him along towards one of the black tunnels leading away from the cavern.

The fear that got hold of Bilbo was so strong, it choked off his scream before it even could do so much as leave his lungs, and so the little Hobbit was dragged along by the white monstrosity, not even able to bring himself to struggle against the steel hard grip around his neck.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings apply for this chapter. Rape/dub con/non con, but nothing graphic.

 

His trousers where ripped from him together with his dignity, and in Azog's chambers, on the pile of furs in the corner, the gentle Hobbit from the Shire was taught what humiliation and pain truly meant.

The Pale Orc's filthy hands stroked over his small body, fingers sometimes pinching, nails sometimes scratching, but not deep enough to draw blood. When Bilbo tried to push the hands away, Azog snarled and grabbed his wrists, pinned them down above the blond curls with one hand, and there was no escaping the steely grip. Apparently satisfied, Azog cooed in his strange language while he let his eyes wander over the Halfling's form with curious admiration, so fragile and delicate and soft, so different from his own kind.

Bilbo turned his head to the side and squeezed his eyes shut, for he could no longer stand to see the lust in the white eyes roaming over his naked and trembling body. Bile was fighting its way up steadily, but he swallowed it down, too afraid to anger the Orc above him. Maybe looking and touching the Hobbit would be enough to him for today, and then Azog would leave him alone...

But then the Orc turned him around, and his face was pressed into the furs. Immediately, Bilbo's breathing sped up and he inhaled the scent of musk and sweat and blood. “No,” he pleaded and struggled, but a big hand closed around his neck, nails digging into skin, and he heard a deep growl. A warning, and the Halfling ceased to move, it would not help him anyway, and all he could do was to sob silently into the furs. Then the pain came, burning and sharp and he screamed, but a white hand closed around his mouth to choke off the noise, and when the Hobbit bit down on the fingers, the only answer was a cruel laugh. Never had he felt so helpless.

It was in these hours, as the Pale Orc groaned raspy behind him and he felt tears on his cheeks and blood trickling down his thighs, that he longed for death's sweet mercy. But it did not come to release him from the agony.

 

 

When it was finally over, there was nothing but disgust left inside Bilbo. His body ached in kinds of pain and places he had never deemed possible, and he was too worn out to move. The only thing he managed was to roll on his side and draw his knees to his chest, his back turned to the white, massive creature sleeping next to him.

 

 

At some point he must have fallen into an uneasy sleep, because he was roused by Azog standing up and dressing himself in his armour. Bilbo, for his part, did not dare to do as much as open his eyes, for he feared the spark of lust might ignite a fire again inside the Orc's body if he saw the Halfling move. On the other hand, it was likely that Azog did not care about him being asleep or not, he would just take what he wanted as he had before.

But it seemed the Pale Orc had lost his interest for now, and Bilbo was not sure if it was a good or a bad thing, for it meant he was spared Azog's cruel attention for now, however, it was unclear what would happen to him next. Maybe the Orcs planned to torture information about Thorin's plans out of him. Or he would be tossed before the feet of the Chief's Hunters so they could have a share of the fun. Thinking of the latter made Bilbo flinch and the trembling started again, his breath stumbling over the memories of the previous events. He would sooner throw himself on Azog's metal arm than live through something as terrible again.

Either it was luck or – more likely – a cruel trick of fate, but Azog left the chambers, and Bilbo sighed, calming down, yet he started when the door was opened again and an Orc accompanied by a smaller Goblin entered. Hastily, he grabbed one of the pelts and covered himself with it, not wanting anyone to see his defilement, the blood and – he swallowed – other liquids on his thighs, and the red lines Azog's nails had left as tokens of his ecstasy. However, the Orc, which he recognized as the one talking to him before, did only look at Bilbo's face, mien neutral apart from his ever-present snarl. The Goblin on the other hand, kept his eyes focused on the floor as he walked over to the bed to put down a bowl with water and a rug, and a bundle of something what looked like leather and pelts.

Bilbo just stared incredulously at the things in front of him, while the small creature scurried away and out of the room again.

“Wash and clothes,” the Orc informed him in his bad and accent-heavy Westron, when the Halfling had not moved yet. “Then eat.”

Bilbo hesitated for a long moment, staring at the Orc and the bowl of water in front of him in turn. Clearly, he must have misheard – there was no reason they should let him wash himself and put on clothes... Only if-- he interrupted his thoughts quickly, for he did not want to think himself safe, if even for a short moment. It must be some kind of Orc trickery, but he preferred to follow the orders, before Azog would return to make him.

“Why you not move?” the Orc finally hissed, slightly irritated, and the Hobbit snapped out of his musings and caught himself.

“Could...” he cleared his throat hesitantly, scared he would anger the creature if he finished the sentence, but not able or willing to take the pelt he was hiding himself beneath away in its presence. “Could you leave me alone... please?”

To his astonishment, the Orc _bowed_ his head in something close to submissiveness and followed the polite demand. “I come back when finished,” he said before pulling the door closed behind himself.

For a long moment, the Hobbit just sat on the pile, staring at the door in bewilderment over what he had just witnessed. An _Orc_ bowing its head to _him_ , a captive of their Chief... Maybe, he thought, there was some twisted kind of Orc codex that put captives who had spent the night with an Orc like Azog – he shivered at the thought of it – into a higher rank. Or he had missed out on something.

Whatever the reason for the creatures' strange behaviour, he would do good by cleaning himself or they would return before he had finished erasing the trails of Azog from his skin. Hesitantly, he dipped his hand into the water and noticed that it was ice cold, but he would not bother. Anything was better than looking down himself and seeing what had been done to him on top of feeling it. So he stood up – resolutely ignoring the pain in his buttocks upon the movement – and began washing himself.

Bilbo scrubbed and scrubbed every inch of his small body, from the points of his ears to the tips of his toes several times, until the water had turned dirty and his skin was red and irritated, the sore muscles and the constant pain in his bottom the only thing remaining. He had wished for a bar of soap, but it would have to do.

Sighing, and in a slightly better mood, he picked the clothes from the ground, inspected them and noticed – dumbfounded yet again – that they had given him Orc armour similar to Azog's. A leather breechcloth kept up by a broad belt, decorated by filed off bones and claws, and Bilbo could only imagine which poor creatures they belonged to. He hoped he would not be carrying Hobbit remains around with him from now on.

 _From now on_ , that was what he had thought, as if he would stay here, with these monsters, wearing their clothes and fighting their battles, and keeping their Chief company in the night... No, that was not going to happen. He shook his head and pinched his nose. These were thoughts for later, when he had seen where this was heading.

For now, he had to put on these clothes, however ridiculous they would look on him, and get something edible to silence his greedy Hobbit stomach.

 

 

As promised, the snarling Orc returned sometime later, and when asked, introduced himself as Guzmog. Bilbo had meanwhile finished closing all the clasps on his armour. As apprehended, the Hobbit fit as well into it as into a Dwarven chainmail, for it was slightly too big, and wearing a skirt made of leather strips instead of familiar trousers with suspenders altogether sat not well with him. At least they had brought him a thick, fur-lined vest to keep the clammy cold of the caves away. Sadly, the garment lacked any clasps or buttons to close it, so that the middle of his torso was still not hidden from prying eyes.

But what other choice had he but to accept what they offered, and he was not foolish enough to risk his neck over a piece of clothing. For now he was glad he had not to run about the halls naked. Since that was where Guzmog led him, and Bilbo was aware of the eyes following them, and the way the voices where reduced to a low hush as soon as the Hobbit had entered the great cave. However, most of them kept their distance, some of the Goblins even scurrying away with a chased look to their faces. Once or twice one of the Orcs, driven by curiosity, the Hobbit assumed, came nearer, but Guzmog would snarl something at them with his hoarse voice, and they would return to their places around the fires, heads low and shoulders hunched.

Bilbo would hold his vest closed, uncomfortable and scared as he felt, and at the same time, tried to not let them see his worries. To him, the Orcs where just like the wargs they rode, and he feared they would have a rush of bloodlust as soon as they sensed his fear.

Soon enough, Guzmog had led the Hobbit to a fire surrounded by a small group of Orcs and a few Goblins. All of them looked him over for a moment, but he could not make out what they thought, since none of their miens was easy to read, for they were mostly covered in scars or otherwise disfigured. So Bilbo just stood there, clenching his hands around the hem of his vest and frowned at them – as he hoped, intimidating enough.

“You sit,” Guzmog said to him, and he noticed from the tone of the Orc's voice that it was more a suggestion than an order. Carefully, Bilbo tried to find a position that did not hurt _that_ much, and accepted the bowl of grey stew he was handed with a murmured thanks, which Guzmog translated, what earned him some strange looks and furrowed brows from Orcs and Goblins alike.

“Did I-- did I say something offensive?” the Hobbit asked and cursed his manners, since he thought he had done something wrong. But his question was answered by Guzmog's loud, barking laughter, and he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and irritation.

“No, not wrong,” Guzmog finally told him, when the laughing had ceased. “Strange. But you strange. You small and soft. Azog like.” The Orc grinned, something that even looked a bit friendly when one could ignore the displayed dark fangs, and Bilbo tried to return the gesture but failed, since a wave of disgust rose inside his stomach upon hearing the cursed name. He hurriedly choked down his food and pointedly ignored all glances cast at him.

 

 

After he had finished his bowl – to his surprise the stew had been acceptable, only missing a bit more seasoning – Bilbo listened to the quiet talking around him, but none of the words sounded familiar in any way. It was strange, the Orcish language, and unsettling, a deep growl with the occasional sharp syllable to it, and he hoped he would be rescued by his friends soon, since the sounds of the Orcs continually increased the nervous feeling that had settled inside him when Guzmog had said ' _Azog like_ '. Bilbo sighed and wiggled his toes, only slowly getting used to the strange, uncomfortable feeling of shoes, and he wondered if he should just take them off and continue walking bare-footed, but then he looked around and saw the filth-littered floor, and decided that even wearing heavy boots that rubbed against his toes and heels was better than feeling mud – and doubtlessly other disgusting things – staining his feet.

Sometime later, another Orc walked over towards their fire and exchanged some words with Guzmog, and the latter stood up and turned to Bilbo. “We go now.”

“Where are we going?” He asked, but stumbled to his feet nevertheless, following the two Orcs towards a corner of the cave. “You see,” Guzmog simply answered and gestured him to sit down. The Hobbit followed suit, and felt a hand gripping and dragging at his vest. Swiftly, he lashed out at it, not wanting to be touched in any way by anyone, forgetting to think about the consequences for a moment. The next thing he heard was an angry growl followed by a thud and a squeal, and when he turned around, he saw that Guzmog had hit one of the Goblins across the head, and the force of the blow had propelled the small thing against the next wall where it lay twitching in a spreading pool of its own blood.

Bilbo felt bile rise in his stomach, and he swiftly turned his eyes away, not willing to look at the miserable creature any longer. “What...?” he whispered with a tremor in his voice. “Nobody touch you,” Guzmog explained with a smug grin – or maybe it was just his usual snarl – and the Hobbit thought he had misheard. The Orc must have seen his bewildered expression, because he said, “you see soon. Now take off vest.”

Strangely enough, Bilbo actually found the presence of the snarling Orc calming, since he had been the closest to nice as it was possible for a creature of his kind, and the Hobbit found himself clinging to that small amount of kindness in this vile place. Guzmog nodded, and pointed at the other Orc that had led them to the corner of the cave. “He will sting with needle for mark. For symbol. Will hurt but hold still, or will be ugly.”

“Mark?” Bilbo stammered nervously, and Guzmog pointed towards a jar of ink and then at the Hobbit's bare chest. “On skin.”

“A tattoo?” he sputtered and thought of ugly black markings covering his skin like war paint. In the Shire, nobody had these kind of things, no one respectable at least. He only ever had seen the black drawings on the skin of wandering traders, and, he was reminded painfully, on Dwalin's head and forearms.

How long, he wondered, would it take them to come for their little Burglar? Would they even come, or had they decided to continue their quest without him? Thinking of Thorin and the way he had seen the Hobbit more as a burden than a worthy member of the group, the thought of them leaving him to his fate seemed not so far-fetched any more.

But for now, there were more pressing matters to attend to – namely the Orc walking towards him, a small bone needle in hand – and he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Thank you very much, but-- no.”

“Must,” Guzmog persisted, nodding. “Part of the ritual.”

“What ritual?” Bilbo began, but then he was distracted by the repeated sting of a needle piercing his skin, leaving small black dots behind, and Guzmog said no more.

 

 

When the Orc had finished his work, the Hobbit's skin was irritated, red and swollen beneath the dark marks, and when he looked down at his chest, he saw that there where three parallel lines starting on each side of his breast bone, going on sloping upwards, until they ended at his collar bone right where his shoulders joined his arms. Judging from the throbbing pain on his back, there had to be marks as well, and when he turned his arms, he found a thick, black circle on either of his upper arms, a Wargen head baring its teeth at him from the centre. Bilbo had to admit that the marks, however unwanted, where well done, and even carried a strange kind of savage charm.

“You like?” Guzmog asked grinning when he watched the Halfling exploring the new black marks on his skin, and Bilbo shrugged with a small smile. “Not what I had wished for, nevertheless better than I would have expected.” And he left it at that.

The Orc directed a knowing look at the small Bilbo and offered him a drinking skin. “Drink,” he said needlessly, and the Hobbit brought it to his mouth, desperate for something to moisten his dry throat, but as the first drop of the liquid touched his lips, he sputtered and spat and coughed, and Guzmog let out another of his barking laughs. “What in the name of--?!” he cursed and the Orc laughed even more, drawing the attention of others to them. Slowly, Bilbo felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and before he knew, he was laughing along with Guzmog, feeling a weight lift from his heart, even for a short time.

But then a Goblin appeared next to them, hurriedly blabbering away, and Guzmog listened attentively before he growled a response, and the small creature disappeared again. The Orc's mien immediately sobered, and Bilbo felt the smile slipping off his lips. For a very short moment, he thought he could make out something close to pity in Guzmog's eyes, but it was gone so fast, he regarded it as a trick of his mind. Nevertheless, he felt a weight as heavy as a boulder settle in his stomach, and it remained there persistently when Guzmog said, “It's time” and let him towards the head of the cave, where a fur covered throne was standing.

 

 

When they brought him to Azog, all of the Orcs and Goblins had crowded in front of the throne, standing in attentive silence, and Bilbo wished he could slip into his vest, for all eyes were directed at him again, and he felt so small and vulnerable in the midst of these creatures. But his skin was too sensitive where the needle had pierced the skin, and every touch caused an itching pain.

The Pale Orc rose to his feet and walked towards the small Hobbit, who was crossing his arms in front of his stomach, hugging himself, his head turned to the side, eyes focused on the ground, so he did not have to look at the white eyes roaming over the marks. Not a breath could be heard when Azog walked around the small figure in front of him, admiring the black marks on Bilbo's shoulders and back. As he had rounded him completely, the Orc Chief came to a halt in front of him yet again, grabbing his arms right at the height of the marks, his rough, calloused hand and the cold metal claws pressing down on them, and the Halfling bit back a hiss of pain. He would not show weakness in front of the whole pack, however feared he was. They would not remember him as a trembling mess, whatever his fate.

Then, Azog turned him around and gripped his chin with his remaining hand, forcing him to look at the group of Orcs, while he bellowed something in his vile tongue, and when he ended, the whole pack cheered and screamed their approval.

 _They are going to eat me_ , was Bilbo's first thought, and his heart sped up even more. _They are going to eat me and I will become another bone on their armours_. The poor little Hobbit was so frightened he even forgot to scream when Azog drew a knife and pressed the sharp edge of the blade against the palm of his left hand, leaving a small cut behind that soon started to leak ruby-coloured blood. The pack still screamed, cheered their leader on, but to Bilbo's amazement, Azog dragged the knife along the palm of his own hand, drawing black blood, and then pressed the cuts together, a small hand vanishing in a big pale one.

Then Azog lifted both their hands and showed their cuts – smeared with black and red blood – to his cheering pack, roaring wordlessly.

Bilbo shook and desperately wanted to wipe his hand on his breechcloth, but he feared the Orcs might be offended by it, so he kept it raised until the cheering died away, and silence fell once again.

A rasp order was spoken, and an Orc appeared in the mouth of one of the tunnels, leading a Warg into the room and to Bilbo's side. The beast's fur was of a light silver colour, and it had green eyes, just like the Hobbit. _Perfect, now I am reduced to Warg food_ , the Hobbit thought, but the wolf did nothing but stand there, looking the strange small creature over and sniffing at it. Bilbo surprised himself when he slowly, carefully, raised his hand to the beast's snout, letting it smell at the Orc blood stained cut. For a painfully long moment, nothing happened, and the Hobbit held his breath until it was burning in his lungs, but then the silver beast protruded its tongue and licked over the cut before it pressed its large head against the small, trembling hand, and allowed him to scratch behind his ear with a low approving growl.

Around him, the cheering rose again, and Bilbo let go of the breath he had been holding, for he finally _understood._ They had not planned to eat him, in fact none of them were permitted to to touch him but Azog.

They had made him one of them. In fact, they had made him _Azog's mate._

 

 

That night – or day, Bilbo had lost his feeling of time in the ever dark tunnels of the Pale Orc's realm, not that it mattered anyway – Azog took him again. It was not less painful or disgusting, but still different. This time, he was pulled onto the Orc's lap, and the big hand came to rest on the Hobbit's waist, as if he was avoiding to touch the black markings, which, now he saw, were copying Azog's scars, at least on the chest. The thought that he would be carrying this proof of his ownership forever was disturbing, because even when he could escape the Orcs, he would be reminded of the Pale Orc whenever he looked into a mirror.

When Azog thrust inside him, and Bilbo bit down hard on the broad, white shoulder to silence his agonized wail and fight the feelings of disgust and hate boiling hot inside him, the Hobbit made a promise. He would take the Pale Orc's head, whatever the cost, and he would not rest until he was standing in the black, stinking blood and it was done.

 

 

The dwarves of course, knew nothing about what had happened to their dear little Burglar, and had they known he was still alive and doomed to share a bed with Azog himself from now on, they likely would not have abandoned their search when they had found no trace of the Orc pack or the Hobbit himself.

But as it was, Durin's Day was drawing closer, and their quest had not yet reached its goal. To their defence, it should be said that they searched the forest and the foot of the Misty Mountains as long as they could, however not one Orc or Goblin showed themselves, and they continued their journey with empty hands and heavy hearts.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments and Kudos, you make me really, really, really happy and I love you all!
> 
> Since Bilbo learns some Orcish in this chapter, I thought I should bring some Orcish in. Here is all the vocabulary you will need for now:  
>  Irz-lat: Run!  
>  Akashuga: Halfling  
>  Grat-izub: My Chief  
>  gaz: small
> 
> Sadly, I only found a dictionary for the language of Mordor, but I thought it will do, since nobody really knows any "Orcish", but it is said the language actually exists. Anyway, I red through the whole dictionary for you, because there was no English-Black Speech to be found anyway. Took me about an hour until I found all the words.  
>  Also, all the names of the Orcs and Goblins are made up by myself, I checked the Middle Earth Wiki if there were any Orcs by the same name but found none. Should I have used an already existing name, please tell me, so I can change it.
> 
> For now, enjoy, and should anyone feel up to draw a picture of our dear little Hobbit in his Orcish armor (without the helmet but with the tattoos please), I would love you forever! Really!

 

Waking up and realizing he was still laying on the pile of furs next to Azog was always the worst moments of Bilbo's days in the Orc cave.

In his dreams, he was back in the Shire, walking through endless green fields, the sun warm on his skin and the smell of grass in his nose. Everything was back where it had begun – with him sitting on the bench in front of his Hobbit hole, puffing away at his pipe, the fragrance of Old Toby hanging in the air around him. But no Wizard came to mark his door, no Dwarves invaded his home and his pantry. No flying plates and pots, and doilies used as dishcloths. No singing and voices whispering of the adventures of _Bilbo the Dragonslayer_ , who ran off with thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard, and returned as a hero.

No, everything was peaceful and in perfect order. Right where it belonged and it would stay that way. 

But then he opened his eyes, and the dream fell off him, crumbled to dust. Green fields and warm Hobbit holes being replaced by damp, dark caves littered with screeching Orcs and Goblins, and _Azog_ at his side, stroking his legs and chest, growling lowly in pleasure and approval over his little, precious mate.

The black marks on the Hobbit's chest and back and arms where not enough for the Orc Chief, and he left his own markings on the pale, soft skin. His teeth bit down into neck and shoulders, and his hand left bruises where he held on hard for leverage. And whenever Bilbo left Azog's chambers to get away from the dirty pile of pelts and the memories it helt, there were new purple blotches and red lines and bite marks visible on his skin.

He had long since given up on trying to cover them, and if he should catch an Orc staring at them, a sneer on its ugly face, he would in turn look back with an unwavering glare and they looked away, too scared of the things their pale chief would do if they ever dared to spend too much time looking at his mate. 

Bilbo was no fool, he knew the Orcs did not fear him but Azog, and it filled him with even more anger and hate. To them he was nothing more than the Pale Orcs plaything, and they only waited for him to grow tired of the small Halfling so they could have their own taste of the soft white flesh. But they did not know what they had brought into their midst, did not sense the black hatred boiling inside Bilbo's stomach, did not hear the scream for revenge in his head, or else they would not have laughed when he took one of the dark Orc blades and asked Guzmog to instruct him.

No, they were far from aware of how the Hobbit changed, how their corruption had taken a hold of him, seeping through his senses into his mind, drowning the gentle nature of the Shirefolk in a black pool until it was nearly gone completely.

 

 

“You angry, Little Lord,” Guzmog remarked one day while they were training, and Bilbo lashed out at him with his sword, a swing that was easily dodged by the more experienced Orc. “I told you not to call me that,” the Hobbit hissed, indeed angry, for his treacherous mind had carried him away to memories of the night he had fought Orcs the first time, defending a King without a crown, surrounded by roaring fires. It had been barely two weeks since that night, but it felt like it had happened a lifetime ago, to another person, to a courageous Hobbit of the Shire, and not to the plaything of Azog the Defiler. 

He had been the one to stand between Thorin and the Pale Orc that night – he had even thrown himself against one of the Hunters and killed the Orc, only wanting to _help_. And how had he been repaid? They had abandoned him, had left him to his cruel fate, carried out by the hands and hunger of the Orc they despised the most. He had known it when he first week had gone by with no message of the scouts outside the mountain who were looking out for any signs of the Dwarves.

Bilbo's blade clashed forcefully against Guzmog's with a loud clang that echoed off the walls of the great cave. Attracted by the noise, a large group of Orcs and Goblins had gathered around the fighting pair, cheering and growling and hoping for at least a bit of blood to be spilled. The Hobbit, however, did neither see nor hear them, too focused on his rage and Guzmog in front of him, every blocked or dodged hit spurring him more, fuelling his anger, until he was directing a volley of blows and slashes at the Orc, most of them getting parried or missing, but some actually drawing blood from small cuts on dirty grey skin. For a moment, it seemed the Halfling had the upper hand, pushing the Orc hunter back, but Bilbo had been neglecting his stance, getting too close to his sparring partner, and Guzmog brought the flat end of his sword's hilt down on the Halflings hand, so that he let go of his blade and it clattered to the ground.

The Orc smirked, convinced he had won the round, and let his hand drop, only to be hit by the small body of an angry Bilbo, who had thrown himself against him with a wordless cry, and they both fell to the ground. The small one was faster than bystanders would have thought, since he had pressed his knee to the Orc's chest and kicked the sword away before Guzmog could even process what had happened.

For a long moment, there was silence, the quick, exhausted breathing of both Orc and Halfling the only sound, but then cheering erupted from around them, and Bilbo became finally aware of the pack crowding them. They roared and stamped their feet and beat their chests for their Little Lord. 

Incredulously, he looked around, at their disfigured faces and eyes full of violence and rejoice, and when Guzmog heaved to his feet and slapped him reassuringly on the back – something that nearly threw the surprised Hobbit off balance, but he caught himself before he could fall onto his behind again – Bilbo realized that he had earned his place in their midst, and the Halfling was not sure if he should join in their cheers or hate himself for it.

 

 

It was later that same day that he asked Guzmog to teach him the speech of his kind. So far, the Hobbit had not bothered to spend a thought on the vile tongue, or the names of his guardsmen for that matter, since he had doubted they would be of any use in his plans, but the cheers of the pack had shaken him awake. He had proven his worth today, and he could – and would – do it again, before the memory of his victorious spar could fade into oblivion, and he would become the plaything again. 

“You want learn, Little Lord?” Guzmog asked and threw the bone he had just gnawed on into the fire they were sitting around. Bilbo rubbed his eyes and heaved a sigh, cringing when he heard the title. “Why do you call me that?”

“When you angry, you like Orc, so you Little Lord. Now you want learn us talk. You really Little Lord!” Guzmog showed all of his teeth in an almost affectionate grin, but Bilbo was still not sure if Orcs were even capable of these kind of feelings, although he had seen something similar glinting in the snarling Orc's eyes several times already. A memory flashed to the front of his mind – a bone white hand roaming over his skin, nails dragging along, but not pressing down hard enough to draw blood, fingertips carefully avoiding the irritated, reddened flesh beneath black markings.

He shoved the thought away, determined that Azog was the least of all Orcs infesting the whole of Middle Earth able to feel anything beyond violence and hunger. _If_ he treated Bilbo with a certain cautiousness – and the Halfling was sure that this was not the case, judging from the bruises and scratches covering his skin – it would be only for the reason that he was fearing he would accidentally brake his plaything before he grew tired of it  


“Tell me their names,” Bilbo said and inclined his head in the direction of his Guard, trying to distract himself from his former thoughts, not willing to dwell longer on them than necessary, since he doubtlessly would see the Pale Orc again later. The thought left a taste of bile in its wake, and the Hobbit tried to rinse it away with water, but was only after a fashion successful.

“Glubtog, Rashnaz, Hugmeg, Zukbul, Grinákh, Obduf,” Guzmog said, pointing at each of the Orcs around the fire in turn, and then towards the three Goblins sitting a few feet away from their group. “Snagash, Rolg, Feshmeg.” Bilbo tried the best he could to repeat after the Orc, but his voice stumbled over the foreign syllables, and his first attempts at Orcish were answered by laughter. Zukbul even choked on the meat he had been eating, so that Hugmeg had to slap his back several times until the offending piece of food was spat out in a wide arch across the fire and hit Glubtog in his empty eye socket. The whole thing was so absurd the Hobbit had to fight hard to not laugh, but ultimately failed, and a giggle was starting to bubble out of him until it turned into loud, releasing laughter that shook his small body and chased the dark thoughts away for a time.

 

 

Bilbo had avoided every mention of his warg for the greater part of three weeks, for he was not quite fond of riding any creature of any size – least of all one of the wolf-like beasts. He had been resistant enough of sitting on a pony, and those were certainly not capable of biting his head off in the blink of an eye, thank you very much. If it had been possible, the Halfling would have delayed the riding lessons for some more time, but Guzmog made it quite clear that he had to face the Warg sooner rather than later, or else the respect he had gain through his successful fight against the Orc would be forgotten by the next week. 

And so it came that Bilbo found himself standing in a cave serving as kennel, pinching his nose closed against the overwhelming stench of excrement and rotting meat. Even though Orcs barely spared a thought on hygiene, it was hard to believe for the Hobbit that they were not at least a bit affected by the odour dominating the air. However, the whole of his Guard trailing in behind him did not seem to notice it at all, and Bilbo let go of his nose with a sigh, only to regret it afterwards, when he was hit by a gust of wind that seemed to carry the essence of the reek with it, making the poor Halfling clutch his stomach and retch and cough audibly. Beside him, Guzmog chuckled, shaking his head slowly.

“Will get used to it,” he assured and Bilbo nodded weakly, although he highly doubted it. When he had finally regained his composure, the two went on through the lines of Wargs in the cave, some off them curled in on themselves, others pacing to and fro, and at some point, a battle-worn great beast with felted black fur joint the Orc and the Halfling, trotting along next to Guzmog.

“Yours?” Bilbo asked, and his assumption was confirmed by the Orc with a jerking nod. “It looks... nice?” he hesitantly continued, and the Orc threw his head back with a guffaw, his hand slapping the Hobbit repeatedly between his shoulder blades, making him stumble forwards every time the hand hit. “You funny, Little Lord,” Guzmog rasped out between breathless laughs, and Bilbo had to remind himself again that neither small talk nor pleasantry was of use around his new companions. “Nice,” the Orc repeated under his breath, still chuckling away, and the Hobbit felt the pointy tips of his ear turning red with embarrassed heat.

In the meantime, they had crossed the room, and there it was – Bilbo's warg, sitting on its hind legs as if it had been waiting for its master since the ceremony. He came to a halt abruptly, too intimidated by the sight of the beast's nastily long fangs and claws, and the Orc had to push him softly forward.

“I—I don't know, Guzmog. Maybe we should do it another time?” the Hobbit babbled and dug the heels of his boots into the ground, the Orc, however, was not discouraged in the least by the behaviour. “You chicken – they eat you,” he simply stated and gave his Little Lord a last shove, which had him stumbling towards the beast and he nearly bumped into it. In an instant, Bilbo took a step back, hands raised and palms turned towards the warg as if he wanted to show he meant no harm, but the beast already knew, for it sank completely to the ground to allow its small master to climb on its back, what he would not have been able to do when the beast stood, since the Hobbit's golden curls ended a few inches beneath its shoulders. 

“Up on back,” Guzmog said and leapt easily onto his own mount, despite his limp, demonstrating how it was properly done. Bilbo sighed heavily, not believing what he was about to do, grabbed the warg's thick fur, and pulled himself up and onto its back. Slowly, as if not to scare him, the beast rose again, making the Hobbit cling to its fur and gasp startled when he nearly slipped off the broad back, since his legs were so short he had problems straddling the beast.

“Now what?” He asked and shifted around to find a better position, but failed. “Now say _irz-lat_ and we go,” Guzmog told him while patting the neck of the black monstrosity he sat on.

“ _Irz-lat_?” Bilbo repeated questioningly, but before he knew it, the warg leapt and started running through the narrow tunnels, its little master crying out in shock and bouncing on its back, for he was holding himself up too stiffly, and nearly fell of his mount once or twice when it rounded a corner. The Hobbit was holding on to the fur for dear life, and feared he would rip some of the hair out and thus be thrown off, but nothing the like happened, and so he was carried out of the caves and into the forest, where Guzmog finally caught up with him, grinning broadly over the Halflings first attempts at warg riding. Bilbo's beast fell into a swift trot next the black one, and the Orc reached out to push against the space between the Halflings shoulder blades, so he was bending over the neck of the beast. 

“Better!” Guzmog laughed, and they were joined by the rest of Bilbo's guard, wargs running swifter than horses through the undergrowth and leaping over fallen tree trunks. Several times, the Hobbit was hit by a low hanging branch, and the wind stung his eyes, but he could not care less, for finally, after almost three weeks in the caves, he felt like he could _breathe_ again, smell the forest, and hear the wind whispering in the leaves. 

His warg was carrying him away from Azog, if only for a short time, but it did not matter, not now that the crushing tendrils that had wrapped around his heart three weeks before finally loosened, and he bellowed “ _Irz-lat! Irz-lat!_ ” spurring the beast beneath him until he was at the head of the group, and for a moment, free again.

 

 

When they returned later, Bilbo felt the walls pressing down on him mercilessly, and his heart dropped more and more with every foot the warg carried him deeper into the mountain until they were back at the kennel. He clearly had not missed the stench and the filth, but they were not the reason his breath was caught in his lungs.

As soon as they had reached the cave in which the whole of the pack resided, his mood was considerably dampened again, and not even the cheers of the Orcs upon seeing the dead deer they had brought from their hunt could lighten it again. Tendrils, black as the night, oozing darkness and pain and sorrow, wrapped around his heart, their grip so much tighter since he had seen the moon and the stars again, had tasted _freedom_.

For a moment, Bilbo had thought of spurring his warg until he would have left his guard and the caves of the Misty Mountains behind, but what good could it have done? Guzmog and the others had surely caught up to him, and even if not, Azog would not take this disrespect lightly, and would chase after him until the Hobbit's silver beast tired. Then it would be Azog and the Halfling, and not even his swiftness could help him in this battle. He could not bring himself to think about what the Pale Orc would do to him then, furious as he would be, but he was sure that – if he ever would be able to leave the chambers afterwards – it would take him at least a week's time.

No, simply running off would either end in his death or being dragged back in chains. And both would not help in the least with what he had in mind for Azog. No, he would have to hold out a bit longer, until he could take the pale head and return to-- 

Return to where? The Shire? He could never return to his old life, not when these markings where covering his skin and he was destined to see them whenever he looked down his body, black and bold on his skin, scars of a different kind. And what made him think Azog's henchmen would not seek revenge? Even if he could shake off his memories and bury them deep in the back of his mind, they would follow in the form of howling Warg Riders thirsting for Hobbit blood. He knew they would not stop after they had taken care of Bilbo. 

No, the Shire was out of question. Not many fighters could be found there, however courageous, they would not hold out long against the unrestrained violence of the Orcs. True warriors would be needed, who would be able to hold up against the wave of monsters, someone who hated them as much as Bilbo himself. Like the Dwarves.

A wave of sadness threatened to suffocate the Hobbit when he thought of his bearded companions. Kíli and Fíli and Bofur smiled at him out of his memories, and the faces of the others joined them. He saw Dori and Nori taking care of young Ori, and Gloin, talking about his wife and son with that distant look in his eyes, while Oin sat beside him and nodded, and Bombur sharing his food with Bifur, Dwalin and Balin headbutting each other in his kitchen. Bilbo was trapped in a surge of fond memories, and he wished he could return to them and help on their quest to take back Erebor.

But then he saw a face with piercing blue eyes, framed by long black strands of hair, and lips frowning beneath a thick beard of the same colour. Hot anger settled inside the Hobbit, and the fond memories faded, his feelings being turned to ash until only the bitter and dark ones where left behind. He had no place between them to return to. Not any more.

“Now you look like Orc again, Little Lord.” Bilbo snapped out of his thoughts, anger subsiding until it was merely an ember, a shadow of its former self waiting for the spark to give it new life. He knew the spark would soon come, but now was not the time. The Hobbit smiled weakly at the Orc in front of him, asking, “do I now?” Guzmog sunk to the ground next to Bilbo and handed him a bowl with a big chunk of roasted dark meat.

“Others happy,” the Orc told him while he chewed on his own meal, his arm making an expansive gesture to indicate he was talking about the whole pack. “Told them you kill one alone.” 

The Hobbit nearly choked on his food, and Guzmog cackled while he hit the small back repeatedly to help removing the offensive piece of meat from the wrong tube. “I hope you haven't told them the whole story,” Bilbo said breathless after he had rinsed his throat with water. “I said you broke it neck, they think you do with hands.”

The Hobbit sighed relieved, since the true course of events had not been nearly as heroic. As it was, they had indeed been hunting for food, and the unfortunate deer had died of a broken neck, but Bilbo had not used his hands to do it. To tell the truth, it had been an accident, caused by the Hobbit's warg coming to a halt so abruptly, the Halfling was thrown off his mount in a wide arch and hit the fleeing animal with the whole weight of his body at the back of its neck. Both Halfling and deer had fallen to the ground, Bilbo only complaining about some bruises, whereas the beast was not able to do anything any more. His guard had laughed and cheered, but sworn to keep the more embarrassing details of the tale to themselves.

Thoughtfully, the Hobbit let his gaze wander over the group of Orcs around the fire, all members of his Guard, laughing and talking and drinking, and without being aware of it, the Little Lord smiled.

 

 

Weeks rolled by, and Bilbo spent most of the time on the back of his warg, hunting in the forest or sitting around the fire with Guzmog and his guard. When he was taken to Azog's chambers, he endured it and fought the tears burning in his eyes down, staring at the walls and the ceiling, and willed himself to think of something else.

First, he had tried to think of the Shire's rolling hills and his armchair in front of the warm hearth, but it hurt all the more, for it reminded him of _why_ this cruel fate had befallen him – because his home, familiar and peaceful as it was, had not been enough for his Tookish need of adventure that had not been able to be sated with long walks to the border.

So he thought of something else. Of blood, black as its corruption, being spilled, of a blue gleaming blade piercing pale skin, and it was the only thing that kept him up and walking, determined.

At one point, Azog had started whispering something to the Hobbit, but he knew only some of the words from Guzmog's lessons. “ _Akashuga-izub âmbal gaz,_ ” the Pale Orc growled when he bit down on Bilbo's ear to leave new markings and taste a bit of the red blood. 

_Akashuga_ and _gaz_ meant Halfling and little, that he knew, but he could make no sense of _âmbal,_ for he had never heard any of the Orcs use it, and even Azog only said it when they were alone in his chambers. Somehow, Bilbo felt the word to be something intimate, and he was hesitant to ask Guzmog for its meaning.

But one day, he had felt he could not carry the question around any longer without receiving an answer to it, so he choose a moment of privacy between the Orc and himself.

“Guzmog, could you answer a question for me?” he asked one night when they had been outside to hunt food, and now were sitting around a small fire in the woods, while Humgmeg and Grinákh were skinning the three hares that had been unfortunate enough to cross their path, the rest of the guard watching with greedy eyes.

“Yes Little Lord,” Guzmog said while he put more branches into the small fire.

“Could you--,” Bilbo began, but hesitated, his gaze dropping to his feet which were pushing a small pine cone around idly. It was ridiculous, he knew, for the embarrassment would be Azog's, still the thought of telling the Orc about the Chief's low growls in the secrecy of the chambers sat not well with him. He shook his head as if to get rid of the feeling, and instead said, “What does _âmbal_ mean?”

Guzmog froze in his movements, the hand holding a branch stopping short in mid air, and the snarling face turned towards the Hobbit, mien full of surprised disbelieve. For a moment, Bilbo thought he had said something foolish or offensive, but then he reminded himself that he had merely asked for the word's meaning. Still, he shifted beneath the Orc's scrutinizing gaze. “ _Âmbal_ mean pretty,” Guzmog said finally, and the Hobbit's little heart started beating faster in his chest, a lump growing in his throat. “And-- and _izub_?” he went on, hoping it was not something equally embarrassing.

“Mean _my_ ,” the Orc explained, and Bilbo swallowed.

 _My pretty little Halfling_ , Azog called him, and somehow, he regretted he had found out.

 

 

Weeks turned into months, and by the time the third month came to an end, Bilbo had learned as much of the Orcish language to understand most of it. Even his skill in sword fighting had notably increased, and soon he had won at least one sparring match against every member of his guard. Many Orcs now looked at him differently, some even inclining their heads respectfully whenever he went by them. Guzmog looked at him with a tutor's pride in his eyes, and Bilbo had to admit that he had grown rather fond of the snarling Orc in the time since he had been brought to the cave.  


And with the help of said Orc, the Hobbit had convinced – although threatened might have been a more fitting word – the weapon's master into giving him back his Elven sword. 

“Why you want glowy thing?” Guzmog had asked when he looked down on the gleaming blade in Bilbo's hands with disgust, not daring to come too close. “Sentiment, I guess,” he admitted when he stroked over the engravings on the blade, following the delicate lines with his fingertips and testing its sharpness. “Besides, it is my size, and lighter.” The Orc seemed to be satisfied by that answer, since he huffed and said no more, and Bilbo did not tell him that he had a special purpose for the sword in mind.

 

 

In the first week of the fourth month, news arrived from the Grey Mountains in the form of a messenger. Bilbo watched carefully as the messenger walked over towards Azog who was sitting on his throne, his white warg sitting at his side, eyeing the newly arrived Orc with suspicion. To his regret, the word exchange was not loud enough for the Hobbit to hear, but he could tell from the Pale Orc's expression that he was not fond of what was told him. 

The talking went on for several moments, and the messenger slumped more and more, becoming aware of the fate that befell those who dared bringing bad tidings before Azog the Defiler. And soon enough, the chief rose from his throne and walked towards him, mace in hand, and swung the weapon in one swift movement that throw the Orc across the cave and into a wall, where his limp body was soon enough found and dragged out of sight by the wargs.

The Orcs in the cave had abandoned their doings as soon as they had seen what had happened to the messengers, and they stood attentively to listen to the news that had been brought to their leader. But Azog just stood in front of the pack, chest rising and falling with deep breaths, white eyes flicking over the cluster of Orcs, searching for something.

“ _Halfling!_ ” Azog roared suddenly, his gravely voice sending a shiver down Bilbo's spine, and he flinched, but climbed to his feet and walked towards the Pale Orc, wiping the cold sweat on his palms on his breechcloth. The cluster of Orcs parted to make way for the Halfling, following him with their eyes.

When he had reached the front of the cave, the Hobbit bowed his head, not daring to speak since he feared his voice might betray him. Azog came nearer, put the metal claws serving as a prosthetic beneath the Halfling's chin to lift it so he could see his face. Bilbo swallowed and concentrated on removing any trace of feelings from his mien, so the Pale Orc would only meet an empty gaze.

“ _He tells me Thorin Oakenshield has reached the Lonely Mountain and Smaug has been slain,_ ” Azog said then, voice full of disgust for the Dwarf and his companions. A wave of relief washed over the Hobbit, but he did not show it, since he knew the Orc would not react kindly if he would find any traces of joy on the small face. “ _Are you happy for them, Akashuga?_ ” He growled and leaned down, coming so close to the Hobbit that he could feel the hot, foul breath brushing over his skin, and he shivered with disgust. 

“ _No, Grat-izub,_ ” Bilbo finally said, and hoped Azog had not noticed the slight tremor in his voice. “ _Why is that, Akazuga gaz?_ ” The white eyes bored into his own, relentless and angry and full of violence, and he swallowed, but the suffocating lump in his throat would not budge an inch. “ _You travelled with them, you fought for them. Why is it you are not delighted for them?_ ” Azog pressed him on, the side of his hand resting on Bilbo's shoulder, his thick thumb following the movement of a bobbing Adam's apple, while the other fingers curled around the back of the slim neck, sharp nails digging into skin.

“ _They left me,_ ” the Hobbit whispered breathless, since the light pressure on his throat threatened to cut off his air. The Orc squinted at him, and his nails cut deeper into the skin, doubtlessly leaving red, crescent markings behind, and Bilbo hurried to add, “ _but now I despise them and only love Grat-izub._ ” The words left a vile and bitter taste in their wake, and he longed for something to rinse it away, forget he had ever spoken these words. But they had fulfilled their purpose, and for a heartbeat's time, there was surprise on Azog's face, followed by a cruel and smug smirk. 

His grip on the Hobbit's neck loosened, and his hand slid up towards the light brown curls, fingers entangling and holding his head in place. “ _Good_ ,” Azog growled lowly, before he leaned in more, and for a moment, Bilbo thought he would kiss him, but instead, the dark fangs closed around his lips and bit down hard, drawing blood, and he hissed softly with pain, and the Orc chuckled raspy, before his wet and disgusting tongue licked the ruby liquid off the soft flesh. “ _Good, Akashuga-izub âmbal gaz._ ”

Finally, Azog let go of the Halfling to take a few steps towards his pack, which was still waiting attentively, and he spread his arms, declaring loudly, “ _the Dwarves have returned to their puny mountain, and the dragon is dead!_ ”

Upon hearing this, the Orcs let out an angry cry, stomping their feet in disappointment over the Dwarves' success, but they were silenced by their chief's roar. “ _Thorin Oakenshield might think he has won, but we will bring war to him, and I will tear off his head and hang it from the gates of his precious Erebor myself!_ ”

“ _WAR!_ ” they repeated again and again, stomping their feet and beating their chests, some thrusting their swords into the air in a savage cry for violence, and Bilbo raised his hand to wipe away the saliva and blood dripping off his chin, hiding a disgusted snarl behind his fingers.

 

 

Afterwards, Azog took Bilbo to his chambers, however, he was not pushed onto the pile of furs as soon as they were through the door, but instead the Orc walked over towards a great wooden chest at the back of the room. Without a word, he flicked it open and produced a small helmet from within. It was made of leather and covered half of the wearer's face, reaching down over the cheekbones up to the tip of the nose, two holes at the height of the eyes allowing free sight. Two long fangs each were attached to both sides of it, so they sat above the cheeks, and at its back white, filed off bones stuck out like spikes. 

Azog waved the Halfling over, and when he stood beside the pale, towering form, the helmet was put on his head roughly, so that it slipped over his eyes and he had to shove it back in position. But before he could utter his surprised thanks, a hand slipped beneath the hardened leather of the helmet and closed around the curls at the back of his head, tugging and thereby lifting his chin, so he was forced to look at the pale face above him.

“ _You will fight for me, Akashuga-izub,_ ” the Orc commanded, but Bilbo noticed the way his voice was slightly higher at the end of the sentence, forming a question rather than an order.

“ _Yes,_ ” he pressed out between clenched teeth, and Azog pulled harder on his hair, shaking him, so that he stumbled and had to steady himself by grasping the broad muscular arm. “ _And when you find Thorin, Son of Thráin in battle, what will you do?_ ” At that Bilbo stilled and took a deep breath, his eyes seeking out the white ones and holding the gaze. His heart beat hard against his rip cage, and the blood rushed through his ears.

“ _I will kill him and bring you his head as a present._ ”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akashuga-izub: my Hobbit  
> âmbal: pretty  
> gaz: small  
> Grat-izub: my Lord  
> Grat-lab: your Lord  
> Gazats: Dwarves

 

“ _You are to stay here until Bolg arrives, then you will follow with him,_ ” Azog said when Bilbo was fastening the clasps of the Pale Orc's armour with shaking hands, desperately trying to avoid touching the white skin, what turned out to be rather difficult since the leather breechcloth covered – in his opinion – not nearly enough of it. The Pale Orc had decided to leave as soon as night fell, for his Hunters did not like travelling through the light, it was too bright and burned uncomfortable on their skin, and the tunnels and halls the Dwarves had dug through the belly of the Misty Mountains so long ago would not bring them to the Grey Mountains. But that was not the only reason they avoided the caves and stairs leading deeper into the mines, Bilbo knew. He had heard them talk, only in hushed voices as if they feared they could summon the daemon only by saying its name, and the Hobbit remembered an image from one of his books. A horned head, black as the deepest shadows, in the midst of dancing fires.

The Dwarves, in their insatiable greed for glinting things, had delved too deep and woken it from its slumber, lured it to their caverns and caves unknowingly. The _Balrog_ , _Daemon of Fire and Shadows_ , _Durin's Bane_.

He remembered how he had shut the book quickly, trying to erase the memory of the burning eyes by covering the sight of them.

“ _You will follow us to the battle by taking the road around the Mirkwood_ ,” Azog said and brought Bilbo back to the present, where he was still fumbling with clumsy fingers on the armour clasps, and the Pale Orc grew irritated, since he growled and griped the back of the Halfling's head, twisting long, thick fingers into soft strands of dark blond hair, tugging harshly. “ _Do you understand, Akashuga?_ ”

“ _Yes, Grat-izub_ ,” he ground out between clenched teeth, silencing the whimper threatening to escape his lips upon the stinging pain. “ _Good, Akashuga-izub âmbal gaz. Good._ ” And at that Azog let go of him with a low, satisfied growl.

Finally, Bilbo had fastened all the buckles and clasps on the armour, and now took a step back to bring some distance between the Orc and himself. But Azog had other things in mind, since he reached out and pulled the Hobbit close again, holding the small head up with a thumb and forefinger pressing into the round cheeks on each side of his mouth. Bilbo pressed his lips into a thin line, ignoring the throbbing in his lower lip from where he had been bitten by Azog before. The tall Orc looked at him for a long moment, eyes scrutinizing his face for something, before he changed his grasp and lifted the small Halfling by his neck, pressing his back against the wall, so that his feet were dangling several feet above the ground.

Bilbo struggled against the hand pressing on his Adam's apple hard enough to make breathing difficult, but not cutting off the air completely. His hands closed around the Orc's leather bracers, fingers scratching weakly over the hardened leather and white skin. For once, their eyes were at the same height, and Azog leaned in so close, his breath was brushing Bilbo's skin and bringing the stench of blood and rotten meat with it. “ _You will not run away, Akashuga-izub âmbal gaz_ ,” the Orc growled, and the Halfling tried shaking his head, for the words were trapped in his throat by the fingers pressing down on it.

“ _You are mine, my blood runs through your veins. As long as you live you will belong to me and nobody else!_ ” There was possessiveness in his eyes and voice, and it made Bilbo's hair stand on end and his skin crawl with terror. For a moment, impenetrable, suffocating, black fear closed in on him, and he believed he would never be able to escape Azog. Nowhere he went would be far enough, no hiding place good enough, no army strong enough to keep the Pale Orc away from him. His chances were as high as slipping out of the steely grip around his throat. 

“ _I marked you, Akashuga, do not forget that!_ ” No, he would never forget. He _could_ never forget. Not since the needle had pierced his skin repeatedly and left black lines behind, not since he had been humiliated and defiled on a pile of furs that smelled of musk and sweat and blood, not since a knife had parted the flesh on the palm of his hand, leaving a thin, white scar as proof. 

But even if he could not forget, he could bring it to an end. He would make the Orc pay for what he had done. 

And the only prize he would accept was the white head.

 

 

Leaning against the rough wooden door of the chambers, Bilbo waited until the cheering and shuffling of feet and the clinking of armour subsided. The following silence was deafening. In the four months he had spent in the midst of the pack, there had always been noise; the guttural, occasionally sharp, tongue of the Orcs had filled the cave, together with the sound of fights and also laughter. Now caverns and tunnels were empty apart from Bilbo's guard and the three Goblin servants Snagash, Rolg and Feshmeg. 

He wondered how it would be to wander about the halls and see them in their strange vacant state.

And why was it an odd emptiness dominating the caves had gotten a hold of him as well? Why could he not bring himself to cheer and celebrate now that the pack was gone, and he was out of Azog's reach? It was unsettling, and Bilbo finally turned around to leave the room and find Guzmog to distract himself, but as soon as his hand had closed around the handle, he hesitated. 

He thought he could hear a whisper, but nothing had disturbed the silence in the room, and he convinced himself his mind was playing tricks on him. However, as he pressed the handle down and was about to push the door open, there it was again – a whisper, a thought, at the edge of his mind, barely there, like the sound of naked feet tiptoeing over grass. Bilbo had never felt something such as this before in his life, and so he turned around and searched the room with his eyes for its source, when his gaze came to rest on the battered chest at the far wall.

The sensation grew stronger, until it was a scratching at the back of his mind, pressing forth constantly, making his feet move on their own and carry him towards the chest. 

He did not know why his hands were shaking when they opened the latches, neither did he spare a thought on it, since he was greeted by a familiar sight as soon as he had lifted the lid. Why Azog would keep the Hobbit's green waistcoat, Bilbo did not bother thinking about, for he was so relieved and delighted over finding the garment that he felt a sob climbing the way out of his throat, and he buried his face in the familiar cloth. His cheek rubbed against the soft, but sturdy wool, and he inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of sweat and blood, resin and black, thick smoke, still lingering on the fabric.

The scent of the Shire was long since gone, overpowered by the smell of adventure, but now, Bilbo could imagine it again – the faintly sweet odour of the geraniums growing next to his door, freshly brewed fennel tea, the Gaffer's flower patches, the tangy fragrance of Old Toby's, honey, carrots, pumpkins, potatoes, tomatoes, grass and wheat, and it was all too much to handle. The small body shook with strangled sobs and homesickness alike, and he lay down on the cold ground, pressing the waistcoat against his face, tears dampening the cloth. 

It was not until then that he noticed something hard in one of the pockets, and when he slipped his fingers between the sheets of fabric, he felt cold metal.

His ring! Oh, how could he have forgotten?! Immediately his homesickness was gone, and he sat up to look at the golden loop on the palm of his hand, feeling heavier than it was supposed to be. Not a scratch could be seen on the smooth, pristine surface, which looked as if it just had been polished. Slowly, Bilbo stroked with his fingertip around the loop, and the whisper from before returned to him, strangely soothing to his mind. Now that he had his ring back, he felt nothing was important any more but the small golden circle.

And when Guzmog knocked later to ask the Hobbit if he would join them to tell about how he had tricked the trolls into staying out in the open until sunrise, Bilbo did not know how long he had sat and caressed the ring.

 

 

Bolg arrived one day after Azog had left the caves. The Halfling despised the Orc, not only because he was the Pale Orc's son – and to Bilbo that was reason enough to hate _anyone_ – , but because Bolg was, just like his father, one of the nastier kind of Orc. He belonged to those who only found pleasure when they were killing and raiding and destroying, and even Guzmog and the rest of Bilbo's guard looked at him with dislike in their eyes. Furthermore did Bolg and his loyal henchmen anything to provoke others into a fight, eager to prove their strength and skill.

And so it came that a fight broke out between Obduf and one of Bolg's men, only a few hours after the return of the four Orcs from the scouting mission in the Mirkwood. Bilbo had not seen the beginning of the fight, or who had started it, but since Obduf was rather small and gentle – for an Orc at least – the Hobbit had no doubt about who was the culprit, and when he arrived with Guzmog at the commotion, Zukbul and Grinákh had already taken their friend in their midst and where shouting at Bolg's underling. 

“ _Please, Zukbul, Grinákh_ ,” Bilbo said to try and stop them before the fight could escalate into something worse, but they did not hear them over their shouting, and soon enough, weapons were drawn and threats were spoken. 

“ _STOP!_ ” the Halfling yelled angrily, this time loud enough, and both sides froze before they turned their heads to him. Suddenly at a loss because of all the attention, Bilbo had do search for words and regain his wits, before telling his men, “ _put your weapons away. Enough blood will be shed soon._ ” They did as told, but Bolg's underlings kept their swords in hand, seeking out their leader with their eyes for orders.

Bolg had been standing next to them the whole time, grinning broadly, a glint of pleasant anticipation in his white eyes, and now he slowly walked over towards the Halfling, glaring down at the small creature which had dared to interfere. Bilbo unconsciously straightened his back and put his hands on his hips. Next to him, Guzmog came closer, one hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.

“ _Did you hear that? Was that a little bee buzzing?_ ” Bolg said in his croaky voice that set Bilbo's teeth on edge, but he did not answer, only glared back at the ugly, pale visage, seemingly held together by the strips of metal along his nose and forehead. The beard and hair framing the face was of a dirty red, and from the stench the Hobbit could tell it was blood-stained. When the Orc had reached the Halfling he leaned down, bringing their faces closer to each other, and Bilbo tried not to flinch or wrinkle his nose over the increasing stink invading his nostrils. 

“ _Maybe I should crush the little bee beneath my feet, so it will stop buzzing, hm?_ ” the Orc continued, and his henchmen cackled from somewhere behind him, but not for long, since there was the sound of a blade being drawn, and soon enough Guzmog's sword pressed dangerously against Bolg's pale neck, a few strands of the dirty red beard floating to the ground.

“ _Pay respect to the mate of Grat-lab, Bolg_ ,” Guzmog growled and bared his teeth like a dog. Although Bilbo was grateful for the help and would not in the least mind seeing the pale throat being sliced open, he raised his hand and put it on his friend's elbow, pressing gently, and after a few moments, Guzmog withdrew his arm reluctantly. Bolg ground his teeth and straightened his back again, clearly angered by the whole matter. “ _Are you so soft now that you play guard dog for a dirty Akashuga, Guzmog?_ ” he taunted, but the other Orc ignored the poison in his words.

“ _I was chosen to protect Akashuga Grat-izub, and I am loyal to him._ ”

Bilbo felt his belly warming with affection for the snarling Orc, and hoped the quarrel had found its end, but Bolg would not give up, for he was a sore loser and could not accept he had been bested. So he reached for his two handed mace and swung it at Guzmog, who dodged it in the last moment. When the spiked head of the heavy weapon buried itself in the ground, splinters of stone flew up into the air and Bilbo leaped away. In an instant, his hand closed around his sword's handle and he drew it while he run swiftly towards the bearded Orc, who was raising his weapon yet again. However, he froze when he felt something sharp poking into his stomach, burning his skin and making his blood boil, and upon looking down he saw the gleaming Elvish blade piercing through his armour.

“ _I will slice your stomach open before you can do so much as swing your weapon_ ,” Bilbo said, breathless, and hoped his voice would not betray the fear he felt. “ _Lay it down and I will spare you._ ”

For a moment, Orc and Halfling stared at each other, and behind each of them, their men crowded, weapons drawn and ready to charge should someone move. “ _I see the bee has a sting,_ ” Bolg finally said, sneering down at Bilbo, despite being in the less fortunate position. “ _But Bolg does not yield! Least of all to a little insect like you, Akashuga! I will crush you!_ ” He screamed, raising his mace high over his head to bring it down hard on the small creature, but a Hobbit was nothing if not swift, and so the weapon hit the stone beneath their feet yet again. Bilbo had jumped to the side, drawing his blade along Bolg's armour, so that the leather protecting his stomach parted and gave way to the white flesh beneath. A trickle of blood ran down from a long cut, but sadly it was not deep enough to bring death. 

The folk of the Shire was not likely to kill anyone, since they saw barely any reason for it and lived a peaceful life in the west of Middle Earth. Yet, Bilbo was far away from his home, and he had not spent the last few months in a company that could be considered respectable or even good in any meaning of the word. 

So he did not hesitate when he saw the opening in Bolg's defence, did not stop short, but rather jumped forward, putting all his weight behind the blow.

Flesh and skin gave in easily to the sharpness of the blade, allowing it to bury itself to the hilt in the Orc's stomach, and Bilbo heard a gasp of pain, then a loud clonk when the heavy mace hit the ground. Bolg's legs gave in and he sunk to his knees, clutching the sword sticking out of his body with one hand. 

Silence fell over the group, only disturbed by the heavy breathing of the bearded Orc and the Hobbit next to him. Neither Bilbo's nor Bolg's men were able to comprehend what had happened, not until the Halfling withdrew his sword from the large body and it came back coated in black blood that dripped off the tip. Bolg grunted in pain and reached for the Hobbit with weak, shaking hands, but they were swatted away harshly. “ _You should have yielded when you still could_ ,” Bilbo said, and was surprised how calm his voice was whereas his feelings were churning and boiling inside his small chest.

His hands did not shake, his breath was not caught in his lungs or stumbled on the way outside over the remaining parts of his soul that belonged to the peaceful Shirefolk, no voice cried _No!_ inside his head. Everything was quiet, eerily so, and clear when he swung his sword in a wide arch and cut through flesh and muscles and tubes, beheading Azog's son in one motion.

And he did not flinch when the dark blood hit his face, did not look when the head fell off the neck and landed on the ground with a sickening squelch inside a puddle of black blood, did not blink when one of Bolg's henchmen tried to leap at him seeking revenge but was thrown to the ground by Grinákh.

The Hobbit just stood there, eyes focused on the still kneeling, headless body in front of him, and wondered how wide Azog's corruption had already spread inside him.

 

 

“I am not going back to Azog,” Bilbo informed Guzmog in Westron when the others bound hands and feet of Bolg's underlings. His snarling friend turned towards him, grinning. “Know. You killed son. He not like. But you not like Azog. So not matter, Little Lord.”

“Stop calling me that,” the Halfling countered, wondering how much of his plans the Orc had already put together alone, and scolding himself at the same time for thinking Guzmog would not notice how deep his hatred for Azog went.

“What call you then?”

Bilbo fell silent, asking himself how much he could tell the Orc. In the end, with whom did Guzmog's loyalty lie? He had protected the Halfling, but had it been a sign of his devotion towards Bilbo – or Azog? But then Guzmog had always been nice to him – in his own way at least. Endlessly, questions whirled through his mind, _whys_ and _what ifs_ bouncing off the walls of his skull until he felt a stinging behind his eyes, the beginning of a headache brought by exhaustion.

“It doesn't matter any more,” he finally uttered, and a large hand that missed one finger came to rest on his shoulder. Guzmog looked down at him, brows furrowed as if he was worried or confused or both, and Bilbo did not know what to think any more. Everything he had read and seen of Orcs could have not prepared him for how they really were. Some of the things, no _most_ of it, was true. Orcs lusted for blood and for violence, for war and everything it brought. They were not even reluctant when it came to killing their own kind. He had seen them often enough bashing each others heads in over a piece of meat or the like.

Still they were no halfwits, no soulless killing machines, but sentient beings, bred and corrupted to follow a master with a vile purpose.

“You want go, we follow,” Guzmog said and pointed at the others slowly crowding them. “You are _Grat-izubu_. We loyal.”

“Even if I go back to the Dwarves and fight Azog?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, because he did not want to be alone any more, did not want to be abandoned again. “I mean, theoretically of course. Not—not that I plan to, I mean—never mind.”

He was at a loss for words, and maybe it was better that way, since he had been spilling his plans now for long enough, without knowing whose side they were on to begin with. “ _Gazats,_ ” Guzmog growled under his breath, and Bilbo's heart dropped, for he feared he had said something wrong. “We not like _Gazats_. They smell.” The Orc underlined his words by wrinkling his nose in disgust, and Bilbo remembered the smell of pony hair, sweat, and damp earth. 

The scent of travelling Dwarves was indeed not suited for fussy noses, however, Guzmog was not in the position to complain. Bilbo would have smiled if he would not have been so nervous his bones rattled. He dared to cast a quick glance at the others standing around them. The Orcs' faces were curious, for they had not understood much, apart from the Orcish word for Dwarves. 

His knees were so weak, shaking, and he feared they might gave in soon and he would collapse into a heap. With limbs feeling as heavy as potato sacks – and not the light ones, but those the Old Gaffer had liked to put together for Bilbo, filled to the rim with thick potatoes –, the Hobbit could only move sluggishly. He wondered what his chances were if he would have to run from his angry guard – it was not that far to the kennel, however, the Orcs had longer legs—

The Halfling never finished the thought, for Guzmog had put both of his hands on Bilbo's shoulders, and he was turned to face the Orc. He looked down on Bilbo with raised eyebrows, questioning the decision, for – of course – he had already completed the puzzle and seen right through the Hobbit's attempt at denying his plans. “You go to Dwarves, we follow,” Guzmog told him, pressing the small shoulders reassuringly, and Bilbo let go of the breath he had been holding, felt a weight lift from his heart slowly. “Can't trust them treat you like Lord,” the Orc went on, scoffing, wrinkling his nose over the disgust he felt towards the Hobbit's former companions, and, strangely enough, there was laughter bubbling up Bilbo's windpipe, making its way up and out, and soon he was giggling and laughing, pressing a hand onto his stomach and leaning forward, revelling the moment. 

For the very first time since the night he had stood between roaring fires licking and eating away on pines, the monstrous Pale Orc in front and the King Under the Mountain behind him, Bilbo saw light on the horizon of the cruel fate that had befallen him.

 

 

Bolg's eyes were staring up at him, frozen in the moment of his last breath, full of reproach and surprise and anger over losing against such a puny creature as a Hobbit from the Shire. Death had carved his face into this mask, and it would stay that way until time and maggots would only leave white bones behind. 

Bilbo did not pity him. Neither was he shocked by his own display of cold-blooded violence. He just thought back to the beginning of his journey, and wondered if he should mourn the gentle Hobbit who had flinched when Gandalf had offered him the Elven sword. Now the very same weapon was attached to his belt, and his hand was resting on its pummel, a thumb caressing the cold metal and the hilt's wood softly.

There was a strange emptiness inside him, a chasm, pitch black and hungry and opened wide.

“Guzmog,” he called, and the Orc looked up from where he was standing with the others, packing supplies for their journey through the Mirkwood. Bilbo gestured towards the head at his feet. 

“Would you wrap the present? We have to pay our respects to the King Under the Mountain properly, don't we?”

 

 

They rode through the nights and only rested when the sun had climbed high on the sky. The wargs carried them fast and wide through the underbrush near the path meandering through the woods, for they did not dare to ride where they could be spotted easily in the land of the Wood Elves. They seldom talked and kept a watchful eye at the shadows and did not dare light a fire. 

Sometimes they could hear laughter, rippling through the green leaves like a rivulet, clear, however far away, and they kept their distance.

At day, when the others rested, Bilbo sat and stared into the never ending green around them, for he could not find sleep, the fear of being discovered chasing away fatigue and replacing it with nervousness. He wished for a pipe and a sack of Old Toby's to help him calm down, but he must have lost it when he was brought into the caves, so he spent the hours of waiting by taking his golden ring in hand, the tip of his forefinger stroking the precious metal while his mind was far away – until the others roused so they could continue their journey, and the ring vanished in the folds of the piece of cloth Bofur had given him so long ago. 

The little Orc lord and his guard had been fortunate and had managed to make their way through the greater part of the forest avoiding the Elves. Even the great spiders did not bother them, for they felt the corruption inside them that was so similar to their own, and Bilbo dared to hope they would be able to leave Mirkwood behind without disturbance.

However, fate had other plans, and in the last night of their travels, a cloaked figure blocked their way. The wargs came to an abrupt halt, and the Hobbit was nearly thrown off his mount again, but he grasped its neck tightly and was able to stay on the broad back. Around him, his guard growled and drew their weapons, ready to leap and bury blades and teeth in the man's flesh – and it _was_ indeed a man, Bilbo saw, a strangely familiar man. There was a name on the tip of his tongue, but before he could speak, there was a blinding light accompanied by the feeling of a gust of wind brushing against him, and the surprised screams of his men.

The Hobbit had turned his head to the side and squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, he saw all of his guardsmen and their wargs on the ground, groaning and snarling and rolling around on the grass. He was the only one still seated on his mount, but before he could wonder why, the men said a name, he had not heard for a long time.

“Bilbo Baggins.” 

It was spoken with equal parts of surprise and joy, and then amusement. “You are indeed a very wondrous Hobbit!” Gandalf went on, smiling broadly, and Bilbo could not breathe for a moment.

“Gandalf!” he exclaimed and slipped off the warg, hurrying towards the wizard with quick steps and soon he was engulfed by his arms and pressed to the chest of the know kneeling Gandalf. Tears stung in the Hobbit's eyes, and he repeated the name again and again, his voice shaken by strangled sobs. “There, there,” came Gandalf's deep voice, and he patted the small back gently until the trembling stopped, then held the Hobbit at arm's length, looking him up and down.

Bilbo wiped eyes and nose on his arm – and the remains of the respectable Hobbit inside him flinched –, embarrassed now that he remembered his guard was still standing around them and witnessed this moment of weakness. However, the Orcs did not seem to care, but looked at the wizard in front of them suspiciously, weapons still in hand, the tips only lowered.

“Very wondrous indeed,” Gandalf murmured, and Bilbo saw his eyes flickering towards the Orc guard, and then back to the armour the Hobbit was wearing, until they came to a halt on the tattoos. The Hobbit swiftly crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hide them from the wizard's view, but it was too late, the blue, ancient and wise eyes already filled with sadness and pity, that stung and gnawed, because Bilbo did not want him to feel this way. He did not want pity, least of all from those who had left him behind and at Azog's cruel mercy. His hands balled into fists until the knuckles went white. Gandalf must have seen it, because soon his eyes only showed understanding and joyful relieve.

“I am glad you are back, Bilbo, and I hope you will tell me what happened when the time is right.”

Bilbo bit his lip and swallowed down the poisonous words that _no, he would never tell, because they abandoned him, and what had happened afterwards was too cruel to talk about it._ This was Gandalf he was talking to, and he might have been the one who marked the door and brought the Dwarves to his warm and utterly respectable Hobbit hole, however, he was sure the wizard would not have left Bilbo behind had he not thought there was no hope of ever finding him alive.

But that did not stop the painful anger boiling in his stomach, and he had to take a deep breath to calm his nerves, forcing his hands to relax. “W-what...” He cleared his throat in an attempt to get rid of the way his voice trembled. “What are you doing here? And where is Thorin?”

From behind him, Guzmog growled when he heard the name, and Gandalf looked at the Orc over the Hobbit's shoulder, brows furrowed. But then his eyes returned to Bilbo, and he said, “this tale should be told over the warmth of a fire and a shared pipe, do you think not?”

“Yes,” the Hobbit answered and could already smell the tangy smoke and taste it on his tongue. Immediately, a warm, homely feeling settled inside him and spread, a balm, comforting and soothing. 

“I dare say I think so,” he agreed and smiled genuinely, and Gandalf's hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

 

 

Gandalf left them at nightfall of the next day to go and speak to the Elven king Thranduil, to what end he did not say, but as it sounded, Thorin was in desperate need fro help, for the dragon was not the only enemy he had to face. Smaug was dead, but now the people of Lake-town and the Wood Elves alike were on the move to Erebor's Gates. Gold did not only attract dragons, it showed once again. 

And now even Azog's Orcs were on the march, and Bilbo feared there was no stopping them. He had told Gandalf, so he could spread the news, in the hopes the Elves would see that there were more pressing matters than the claim on shining objects. Azog would not stop once he had conquered Erebor, and from there neither Lake-town, nor the Wood Elves were far away.

The Orcs and their little lord rode on, and soon the wargs carried them out of the forest and over the dead ground at the roots of the Lonely Mountain. The dead grass and fallen tree trunks were no welcoming sight, and for the first time, Bilbo could see how much destruction the dragon had brought – not only to the Dwarves, but others as well. Not a single bird could be heard, and even the wind seemed to had ceased blowing. The Hobbit's hair stood on end upon facing this eerie silence all around them, and he urged his warg into a faster pace. They were getting nearer to the gates now, and his heard sped up with every foot they were carried.

Soon, they could see light and the high gates of the Dwarven city, huge and impressive, and doubtlessly able to keep the largest armies at bay. But without food and only thirteen Dwarves, a siege could not be won. Fortunately to the King Under the Mountain, Bilbo had come to offer his help.

The Orc lord gestured his guard to stay in the shadows, and only Guzmog rode on with him. Bilbo carried a branch with white cloth on it, a sign that they did not mean harm but came to talk.

Orc and Hobbit fell silent, and even the wargs seemed to be affected by the gravity of the situation; they fell into a slow trot, and their heads moved hither and thither nervously. Bilbo patted his warg's neck reassuringly when it growled silently, but then they entered the ring of light cast by the torches and braziers alight in front of the gates, and high above them, a warning cry, “Orcs!”

 

 

Kíli saw them first, and he was the one to shout the alarm. He did not look away, his eyes focused on the two wargs and their riders beneath them, and did not see but rather heard the others joining him, all looking down.

“There are only two of them,” Dwalin growled, his axes already in his hands as if he was ready to jump off the wall and take their heads.

“It's a trap!” Gloin said, “Orc trickery!” And the others hummed their approval, for Orcs were vile creatures and could not be trusted.

“But the small one is carrying a white flag,” Fíli remarked, thoughtfully. “Maybe they came to talk?”

“Talk? Orcs do not talk, they only kill.” Everyone of the Dwarves fell silent when Thorin spoke and they turned to their King, only Bifur keeping a watchful eye on the enemies approaching their gates. “But what do they want here then?” Fíli spoke up again, rather silent to not anger his uncle. However, the question was soon answered by one of the Orcs calling out to them.

“We want speak with King Under Mountain!” he exclaimed and the Dwarves returned their attention to them. 

“I do not speak to the likes of you, you are vile creatures, and whatever you came here for, we will not answer your request,” Thorin answered. “Turn around or we will send arrows through your throats!” On command, Kíli drew his weapon and nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring back behind his ear, eyes squinted, ready to keep the King's promise.

But the Orc only sneered and growled, “You kill us, Halfling dies!”

Shocked silence fell over the group of Dwarves, and Kíli let his bow sink, eyes wide over the news. “Bilbo,” he whispered, and his brother shouted promptly, “what have you done to him?!”

The Orc only cackled, a sound that made some of them squirm uncomfortably, and others look at their feet. If the Hobbit was still alive, then that meant they had let him down; abandoned him, and left their Burglar for the Pale Orc to do with him however he saw fit. Thorin cleared his throat before he talked again, his voice wavering slightly, betraying him, but no one dared to let their King know they had noticed.

“Speak then, and tell us what you want.”

“We bring you present,” the taller Orc hissed and threw a cloth-wrapped bundle onto the wall that landed in front of their feet with a sickening squelch. It opened, and out rolled a pale, bearded head, white eyes staring at them. Nobody dared speaking, all too surprised about the cruel present – as the Orc had called it. Were they turning onto each other now?

“Bolg Azogson,” the Orc explained, needlessly – for at least some of them knew the pale face at their feet from the battle of Azanulbizar – and he grinned satisfied, his warg dancing nervously beneath him, growling. 

“Who killed him?” Thorin demanded when he had found the ability to talk again.

“I did,” the small orc said and suddenly reached up, pulling the helmet from his head, and to their surprise they were greeted by a familiar face they had thought they would never see again. “Bilbo,” Thorin breathed with astonishment, his eyes restlessly looking their lost Burglar's face over, taking in the sight of his dirt-smudged curls and skin, the blue rings beneath his eyes, making the irises look pale and cold. His mien was withdrawn, lacking all traces of the gentle and often ruffled Hobbit whose house and pantry they had invaded. “By my beard!” exclaimed Dwalin.

“Bilbo!” Kíli and Fíli cried, surprised and relieved, leaning over the gate, as if they were about to reach down and pull him up. The Hobbit smiled, but it was not genuine, but bitter. The young Dwarves had not seen it. “It is good to see you again, Friend!”

“Yes,” Bilbo answered and nodded, his voice not near as euphoric as theirs. “Yes it is.” For a moment, he looked at Thorin, and the Dwarven King felt his heart sink when he could not see any trace of the gentle hobbit that had tried to stop their journey before it even began because he had forgotten to bring a pocket handkerchief with him. Now, there was determination and fierceness in those eyes, and silent reproach. The jaw was set, and the eyebrows furrowed when he reminded them, “we came here to talk, will you let us in, or are we to shout our lungs raw through the night?”

“No, do come in,” Thorin said after some hesitation and a glance towards the tall Orc snarling at them. He had not thought he would ever invite Orcs into his halls willingly, but he felt he was deeply indebted to the Hobbit – not only because he had saved his life on the edge of that cliff, so many nights ago.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I allowed myself to change the prompt here a bit, so Azog is still alive, I hope OP does not mind.
> 
> Also, personal headcanon: Bilbo thinks of fennel tea because his mother used to make it when he got sick.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind and encouraging words! You make me really happy, and I always smile when I find a new comment in my inbox.  
> Special thanks also to [Capbadgered](http://capbadgered.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, who made [this](http://capbadgered.tumblr.com/post/45081839867/just-a-bit-of-the-fanart-ive-been-vomiting) amazing Artwork! You should definitely check it and the blog out.  
> I also want to recommend my friend [precious-consulting-lokster](http://precious-consulting-lokster.tumblr.com/)'s [fanfic](http://fifty-shades-of-gandalf-the-grey.tumblr.com/post/46183257664/a-fanfic-for-your-fanfic) _Omega_ which she wrote about Bilbo's silver warg. It is cute and a bit sad, and she said she might write more when I continue this story (so let's hope she will!).  
>  I hope you enjoy the reunion and look forward to sassy!angsty!freakingangry!Bilbo and Dwarf-Orc-bitching. Yay.
> 
> Grat-izub: My Lord/Chief  
> Grat-tab: His Lord/Chief

 

Upon Thorin's invitation, the Halfling had called out into the dark, and soon after, another six Orcs on wargs had appeared. The Dwarves had been surprised, and had exchanged confused glances, however, Thorin had nodded his approval, although his jaw was set and his eyebrows drawn together, mien fierce. 

There was a small commotion beneath them at the foot of the gates. Apparently, the Orcs fought about who was to go first and whenever the Hobbit made a move towards the rope they had thrown over the edge of the gates, he was held back by the tall snarling Orc. So it went on for a couple of moments under the watchful gaze of the Dwarves, until they heard Bilbo's voice ringing loud and commanding over the growls of the Orcs. They fell silent immediately, and the Hobbit hissed something before he gripped the rope tight and called up to the Dwarves above.

Kíli and Fíli pulled him up by his arms as soon as he was high enough, and within a heartbeat's time he was pressed against Kíli's chest in a tight embrace. Bilbo let out a startled _Oh!_ but soon his arms came up behind the young Dwarf's back and patted softly. There even was a small smile on his lips, but Thorin noticed it never quite reached his eyes.

When Kíli released the Hobbit, the other Dwarves crowded around them and showered him in affectionate, however, awkward hugs and claps on the back. 

“Welcome back, lad,” Balin said with a smile, holding Bilbo at arm's length while he looked him up and down, taking in the Orcish armour and the tattoos visible beneath the hem of the leather vest. Thorin had seen it too, as well as the fading, finger-shaped bruises imprinted on the Hobbit's neck and the teeth marks right above them, and when he looked up again, he found himself caught in the hard, piercing gaze of the Halfling. There was darkness clouding them, and pain. Thorin felt something icy wrap around this insides tightly and he did not dare imagine what had happened in the four months since their burglar had been taken from them by Azog.

But he had no doubt it had been something truly horrible.

 

 

Bilbo saw to it that all of the Orcs were pulled onto the wall carefully, and the Dwarves did so, however reluctantly. Guzmog was the first one to be pulled up, and he hurried to his lord's side immediately, making sure to tower over the Dwarves, his shoulders set in a straight, strong line, one hand resting on his sword's hilt loosely. The Dwarves kept their distance to the Orcs and Bilbo noticed they eyed them with careful suspicion, Dwalin even had his Axes still in hand. 

He knew that he was asking much of the Dwarves, for they would never willingly invite a group of Orcs into Erebor or any other Dwarven settlement or city. Their hatred for them reached deep and wide, hardened by their shared history. But Bilbo did not care any longer about making them feel uncomfortable. They had let it all happen, now they were to see what four months in the midst of Orcs had turned the Hobbit into.

Still, he crossed his arms over his chest, hiding the tattoos from prying eyes when they were let into the insides of the mountain.

Bilbo stopped breathing for a moment. Erebor was beautiful, and even Smaug's dwelling there had not been able to dampen the city's impressiveness, for the Dwarves craft was as they were – made to endure. The halls reached deep into the mountain, its black walls glistening in the dancing firelight of the torches the Dwarves were carrying. 

The Hobbit's gaze roamed through the city, taking in every detail – the carefully carved golden runes bordering the platforms and stairs, the richly decorated pillars carrying the ceiling high above them, in fact so high above, the light did not reach it, and all he could see was stone fading into blackness.

“It is beautiful,” he whispered in awe, and next to him someone chuckled softly. “Yes it is.”

Bofur was at his side, directing his usual cheery smile at him, one of his hands coming up and squeezing Bilbo's shoulder affectionately. It was a strange feeling to Bilbo, thick fingers closing around his shoulder in a way that was not meant to pin him down, restrain him, and he had to take a deep breath to calm his heart and fight the instinct of flinching away. Bofur meant to harm, he reminded himself. And then, the Hobbit returned his smile and closed his fingers around the Dwarf's wrist, and it was easier than he thought it would be. He had truly missed Bofur and his kindness, his understanding and loyalty, his unconditioned _friendship_. Warmth spread in his stomach, comforting, and he allowed himself to dwell on it for a little bit.

 

 

“You travel in strange company, Master Baggins.” Thorin's eyes flickered towards the group of Orcs sitting around a small fire in the great hall behind the gates and saw Bilbo turn his head to follow his gaze before he turned back to the Dwarven king.

“That might be true. But it would not be the first time I find myself in company some would not consider respectable, would it?” He raised an eyebrow, and Thorin huffed, nodding slowly.

The Orcs watched them from across the room, and Thorin saw the tenseness in their shoulders, the way they were taking in their surroundings and the group of Thorin's Dwarves sitting around another fire not far away. The snarling Orc was standing in the midst of the group, his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, his eyes watchful and narrowed. Thorin wondered how it came the Halfling was travelling with them – even wearing their armour and riding one of their great wolf beasts. But did he really want to know? He remembered a night spent in the warmth of a Hobbit hole when he had told Gandalf that he would not be responsible for their Burglar's fate.

He had meant it. He had been convinced the Halfling would not come with them – and if he would, the Hobbit had been destined to be more of a burden than a help, lacking experience and strength to wield a weapon and apparently the nimble swiftness to pick a lock or a pocket for that matter. All together, he seemed to be more of a grocer than a burglar. However, Thorin remembered an angry cry cutting through the sound of fire crackling around them. His memories were blurred, hazy, a fog covering them, but he still saw the dark, small shadow and the blue glint of the blade in its hand, remembered the Hobbit throwing himself against the Orc threatening to take the Dwarf's head.

That night, he had been proven more wrong than ever before.

“However, I did not come here to discuss my company with you, Thorin.” The words, spoken with a cold voice, ripped him out of his musings, and Thorin looked back at the Halfling, took in his grim mien, eyes narrowed and forehead wrinkled. “In fact, I cam here to warn you. Azog is on his way here.”

The words took some time to sink into his consciousness and he understood what they meant. The Pale Orc was on his way to Erebor, to them. And as much as he longed for vengeance, for the moment he could bury Orcrist deep in Azog's stomach and bring the Defiler's reign of dread to an end, this was not the right time. With Elves and Men at his door, trying to claim the treasures of Erebor, no, _his_ treasure – since his grandfather and father had long since returned to their ancestors' halls to feast for eternity – Thorin had enough battles to fight as it was.

Now Erebor and all inside it was Thorin's responsibility, his to defend. And he would, even if it would cost him the last drop of his blood. He knew his men would do the same, however...

He looked at Bilbo, who was eyeing him with suspicion drawing his brows together, his arms crossed over his leather-clad chest to hide the black lines the vest could not quite cover. Thorin had seen them, and, of course, instantly recognized them for what they were – a sign of ownership, mirroring the scars of the master. Three lines on each side of his chest, parallel as the claw marks of a great beast. They, together with other marks, left by smaller claws and pointy teeth, told Thorin more of what had happened to the Hobbit than he wanted to know.

Four months it had been since the Dwarves had seen the Halfling last, and when he had returned, he was riding a warg, clad in Orcish leather armour and had been surrounded by a group of guards. Thorin had witnessed the way Bilbo tensed whenever he was around his former Dwarven companions, and the way his eyes flickered to the tall limping Orc time and time again, as if looking for reassurance or simply to see if the Orc was still there.

The Hobbit had changed. Truth be told, the soft curve of a belly had started getting less since the beginning of their journey, since there had been no way – or need – to make time for seven meals a day, however, now the naked skin of Bilbo's stomach spread flat over growing muscles, shadows catching softly on their outlines. And when the changes were so visible all over the Halfling's body, how deep did they reach beneath the surface?

Thorin tore his gaze away when a pale arm lay down defensively over the flat stomach, hiding it from the king's blue eyes, and when he looked up, Thorin found himself caught in a dark glare directed at him. The Hobbit's brows were furrowed, and he took a small step back, the tendons in his neck working as his teeth ground against each other so hard, Thorin wondered why he did not hear them. Surprised, the Dwarf arched his eyebrows and felt the sudden urge to lift his hands, palms turned towards the Halfling in a gesture of goodwill and harmlessness, like he was about to calm a scared animal. He resisted it and instead let his hands rest loosely at his sides.

The frown on the Hobbit's face softened slightly, but when Thorin looked back at the green eyes, he felt his breath catch in his throat, regret taking a hold of him with sharp claws tearing into his conscience. In the beginning of their quest, Bilbo's eyes had been green orbs filled with softness and kindness, however sometimes annoyed or flustered. But now, there was a darkness inside them he had not seen before, and he was reminded of the sight of a dark cloud casting a shadow over a field in spring, turning vivid green into the colour of ashes.

“Why are you telling me this, Master Hobbit?” Thorin finally asked, throat dry and heart heavy, blue eyes boring into the green ones in front of him, looking for something that could explain _why_ the Halfling was here, telling him of his new Master's plans, when he and his fellow Dwarves had abandoned him – unknowingly, of course, however, this was not enough to excuse their deeds. Or was it all a scheme, a cunning plan to infiltrate the Dwarves' lines, the King wondered. 

Bilbo must have noticed something changing in Thorin's mien, for his eyes narrowed and he lifted his chin, defiant, challenging. When he spoke, his voice was hard and sharp as a blade, slicing right into Thorin. “You wonder if I am trustworthy, do you not, Thorin Oakenshield?” 

The Hobbits hands had dropped to his sides, clenched to fists, knuckles turning white with the pressure. There was anger burning in his eyes, a fire setting the green alight until Thorin was caught in the illusion of looking into raging seas of blazing red. “Why should the Hobbit riding with Orcs and bearing their tribe's marks betray them by revealing their plans to the enemy, you ask.” He was not shouting, instead his voice had dropped, every word a low, nevertheless sharp hiss laced with bitterness. The Halfling's whole body was tense, muscles shaking with feelings barely contained, threatening to erupt every moment. Thorin had to fight the urge to take a step back, for he saw no trace of the gentle Shirefolk in the Hobbit before him, only violent fury. The firelight cast shadows on the Halfling's face, deepening every line carved into his forehead, between his eyebrows, beneath his eyes, making him look more unfamiliar and wicked than the tattoos ever could. His sneer was full of disgust, lips stretching into a thin line around his teeth, and for a moment they looked as pointy as an Orc's.

“Believe me, I am not doing this for you, King under the Mountain.” The way he said it, the title sounded hollow, and Thorin felt his jaw clench shut, angry words of defiance and insulted pride clashing against the unyielding row of teeth. They would have been drowned by the Hobbit's next rush of words anyway. 

“I hold no love for Azog the Defiler, and, I might say, none for those who left me at his mercy. And I am not here to seek your help, but to give you an advance, however slim it might turn out to be. Without the news I brought before you, you would begin a war with the Men and Elves coming to your gate seeking for gold, oblivious to the real threat advancing from the Grey Mountains.” 

Bilbo took a deep breath to calm his nerves and take the edge out of his words. Thorin was taken aback by his fierceness, unable to find his voice, the dull sensation of Orcrist's hilt beneath his clenching fingers the only proof that he was indeed not dreaming, and even if he had been able to form words, he would have been interrupted by the Hobbit once again, for he said, “we share a common enemy, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and I, for one, will not rest until his blood pools around my feet.”

The words hung heavily in the silence between them, and even the crackling of the fires sounded far away and muffled. Thorin found himself caught in the Hobbit's determined gaze, cold and murderous, so calm it was unsettling and made the skin of the Dwarf's neck prickle uncomfortably. The Halfling in front of him was a stranger, and for a moment, Thorin mourned the courageous Hobbit that had thrown himself against an Orc twice his size to defend a king that wasn't his only to be taken away by an enemy that also was not his. 

“I will fight at your side, if you let me, King under the Mountain, and so will my guard,” the Orc Lord eventually said, his posture relaxing, and when Thorin finally spoke, he was surprised over the roughness of his own voice. “And what, may I ask, do you seek in return?”

There was a gruesome smile tugging at the corners of Bilbo's mouth when he answered, “the head of Azog the Defiler will be payment enough.”

With a curt nod, the Halfling turned around and strode over to the group of Orcs gathered around their fire, gait certain and shoulders a strong, set line of intense determination and unyielding force, and Thorin shook his head slowly, as if to clear it. It was to no avail, for a dark, unsettling feeling had itself embedded deep inside him like a stone in his stomach, and he was not sure who he had invited into Erebor this night.

He did not know when Bilbo Baggins of Bag End had found his end, if it had been that night between the roaring fires, or later, in the cold, Orc-littered caverns beneath the Misty Mountains, however, the creature standing by the fire across the room had been born like a phoenix from the ashes of the gentle, little, gentry Hobbit, and had nothing in common with him.

“Do you trust him,” Dwalin asked when Thorin arrived by their fire, and there was no question of whom he was talking about. 

“I am not sure,” Thorin eventually admitted, voice low so that no one else heard them, and Dwalin nodded slowly, arms crossed over his chest, eyes never leaving the Orcs. The Dwarven king followed his friend's gaze and found Bilbo in a quiet conversation with the snarling Orc, eyes at his booted feet and brows drawn together while he was listening.

He was not completely sure what Azog had done to turn the Hobbit into the Orc Lord before them, but he could not help the feeling that Thorin himself had been the one to initiate the change, and the thought was like an icy finger dragging down his spine, making the stone in his stomach grow into a heavy boulder that pressed down on his insides and left him sullen and restless for the remainder of the night.

 

 

Bilbo leaned against the cold stone in his back and let its coldness seep through his clothes and skin into his bones without flinching. He had grown accustomed to the feeling of cold, hard stone in the four months he had spent deep inside the Misty Mountains, and where he had started trembling before, he relaxed now, grounded by the familiarity. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. Coming to think of it, it was strange how four months had been enough to change him so much, reducing his memories of an always warm Hobbit hole to a haze similar to that of a dream. 

Lost in thought, Bilbo lifted one of his hands and brushed his fingertips over a particular deep bite mark Azog had left on the side of his neck. There was a small, stinging sensation upon the touch where the skin was still bruised, but it was healing, the purple blotch turning green at the edges, and he knew that it would vanish sooner or later. He wondered if the other marks, those that were harder to see than the black and red lines on his skin, would ever heal. Most likely not.

He thought of blue eyes looking at the naked skin visible between the seams of his vest and shuddered. There had been no dark fire burning in the Dwarf's eyes, nothing close to Azog's blunt lust and hunger, still, the Hobbit had felt his hairs standing on end and his skin starting to prickle uncomfortably, and in that moment he had wished desperately for a shirt and a vest and trousers that covered more skin than not. The image of Hobbit clothes came to mind, thick and comfortable and familiar, but he was sure that he would never be able to wear these clothes again. The Shire was not his home any longer, and he could not dress himself in its traditional clothing as much as he could put on the fur of a warg. 

Azog had ripped from him what had made him a Baggins and had left him as something that had never been before. Not a Hobbit, not even an Orc, but a creature in between, lost and without a home, destined to never feel welcomed again anywhere and left to wander from place to place while eyes full of pity and disgust rested on the space between his shoulder blades. 

He felt anger starting to boil in his stomach, a feeling so familiar nowadays it was strangely comforting, and his teeth clenched around the pipe he had lent from Kíli, ignoring the twinge of guilt when the soft wood gave in slightly to the pressure.

“You try kill with eyes, Little Lord?” Guzmog cackled lowly, dousing the anger burning inside Bilbo so quickly and thoroughly, the Hobbit was surprised and started coughing from the smoke he had inhaled too swiftly. 

“Did your mother never teach you that it is bad manners to sneak up on people?” he finally asked when he had regained his breath and the Orc had settled down next to him. Guzmog only shrugged, chewing on something that looked like salted meat, his reply muffled by the food in his mouth. “She think killing things more important.”

There were parts of his meal stuck between his teeth when he turned to grin at his lord, and a Baggins of Bag End would have wrinkled his nose over the display of lacking manners, however, Bilbo returned the gesture with a smile and took another pull on the lent pipe. Kíli had run out of Old Toby months ago, and the tobacco he had had to offer was not even half as pleasant, but it would have to do, and Bilbo was more than grateful to be able to smoke anything, even Men's poor excuse for pipe-weed.

After sitting for a moment in companionable silence – in which Bilbo sent smoke rings swirling towards the ceiling they could not see, and Guzmog picked the rest of his meal from between his teeth – the Orc started to speak, “ _I don't trust them._ ”

The Hobbit hummed affirmatively, since he knew he was talking about the Dwarves and had not expected otherwise from his Orcish friend. “ _And they do not trust us_ ,” was what Bilbo responded while he knocked out the pipe on the stone next to him. “ _However, we do not need their trust to do what we came here for._ ”

Guzmog grunted and took a long gulp from his drinking skin, murky brown liquid running in thin rivulets over his lips and chin into the hem of his armour. The stench of the Orcish alcohol wafted towards Bilbo, sharp and bitter, and in the four months since he had first tasted the vile beverage, he had never quite managed to get used to it. Even now that he had smelled far worse and only was exposed to the alcohol's reek, the Hobbit had to reach for his own water-filled drinking skin to rinse the phantom taste clogging his mouth away. Wrinkling his nose, he watched Guzmog wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

“ _They have a bad way of repaying your loyalty, Grat-izub_ ,” the Orc remarked after some time had gone by, and Bilbo felt his heart stutter over the words which had hit him like a blow, pressing the air from his lungs in a rush. “ _What do you mean?_ ” he demanded with a sharp edge to his voice, pressing the words out through his teeth. However, he already knew what Guzmog was talking about, knew what he was referring to. So did the Orc, but he humoured his lord and explained.

“ _You defended their king when none of them could, and they left you behind. And now that you return and warn them, their eyes are scrutinizing you, and their leader calls you traitor. He may not say it out loud, but I can see it in his actions._ ” Guzmog cleared his throat and spat a glob of saliva at the stone floor at his side, making clear what he thought of the Dwarves' way of treating _Grat-tab_ without the need for words. Bilbo suppressed an amused chuckle over the display of childishness, but did not quite succeed and felt a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. However, soon enough, Guzmog words settled in his mind and he felt his smile fade away, leaving a sobering feeling of sadness and betrayal behind.

“ _I believe they did not know I was still alive_ ,” he defended his former companions – his friends – but it sounded hollow and weak even to his own ears. Guzmog did not reply.

 

 

The air in the great halls of Erebor was thick with tension, and even with the precautions Bilbo had taken, he just waited for a fight between his Orcs and the Dwarves to happen. He had told his guards to stay out of the Dwarves' way, and even if they liked to settle arguments with fists nearly as much as the Orcs, this was neither the time nor the place to rely on their more savage ways. Orcs and Dwarves sharing the same space called for more diplomatic measures.

For the first half of a week, it had went surprisingly well, for Bilbo's guard and the Dwarves did not even consider approaching members of the opposing group, apart from Guzmog, who followed his lord everywhere like a tall, snarling shadow looming over his shoulder to glare at the Dwarves whenever they came near the Hobbit. Bilbo had given up on telling him to stay with the others after the first day, since the Orc seemed to become deaf whenever met by these particular orders, and the Halfling had learned to accept it with amused resignation.

The Dwarves for that matter had, unsurprisingly, more problems to accept their former burglar's new personal guard following him everywhere, and they shot the Orc quick, wary glances and chose every word carefully before speaking. Some of them, especially Dwalin, who would not come near an Orc willingly apart for the purpose of taking their head off, showed their disgust more openly by drawing their weapons whenever they were approached by Bilbo, and he quickly learned to keep his conversations with them short or avoid them altogether if possible.

Kíli and Fíli, however, maybe because of their youth or for the unwavering liking they had taken to the Hobbit, had accepted Guzmog quickly. Of course, they had first met him with careful glances, but had soon turned to at least greet the Orc and sometimes even joke with him. Guzmog, who had been told of the two Durinsons by Bilbo, had grown a somewhat soft spot for the Dwarven lads and come to spare them the hostile glances reserved for others of their kind.

Balin, who sometimes joined the Hobbit to talk over a shared pipe about the four months they had spent apart from each other, simply ignored the Orc, what was quite all right, if you asked Bilbo.

Bofur, surprisingly, sought the presence of the Halfling willingly, even when he was sitting around the fire with his guard. He would sink down next to Bilbo and engage him into an enthusiastic conversation about seemingly anything that came to his mind, and the Hobbit would lean back against the wall and listen to him talking with a smile on his lips. They would sit for hours at a time, and afterwards, Bilbo felt a comforting, familiar warmth seeping through his body, and strangely enough, his memories of the Shire would not hurt as much as they did before.

 

 

When it came to Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, having Guzmog at his side was not quite as calming as it used to be, and Bilbo found himself dearly wishing the Orc would obey his orders to stay at the fire for at least the time it took him to talk to the dark-haired Dwarf. Usually, Guzmog kept his mouth firmly shut around the other Dwarves, however, as soon as they would come near to Thorin, he made a low, rumbling sound in his chest that Bilbo could not help but compare to a warg's growl. 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin greeted the Hobbit as soon as he was in earshot, his cold, blue eyes flickering towards the snarling Orc before returning to Bilbo.

“Thorin,” he said and returned the greeting with a curt nod when the king came to a halt in front of him. Dwalin was at his side, tattooed, broad arms crossed over his chest, his eyes never leaving the Orc as if he was expecting an ambush every moment. 

“The ravens brought me a message,” Thorin informed the Hobbit, mien neutral and diplomatic, but Bilbo thought he saw a hint of relief in the sea-coloured orbs of his eyes, however, his mind could be playing tricks on him. “They said Azog is coming from the Grey Mountains with an army of Orcs and Goblins. He is heading for Erebor, as it seems.”

“This should be no news for you, oh King,” Bilbo retorted, not even trying to keep the small amount of sarcasm from his voice. “Seeing as I brought these tidings before you days ago.”

Thorin inclined his head, acknowledging what had been said, however, there was a line between his brows, betraying his endeavour to stay calm when being faced by the Halflings sharp tongue. “I did not mean insult, Bilbo, however, considering the company you chose to travel with these days, I hope you can understand my wish to have your warnings confirmed by someone else as well,” the king said as diplomatic as the barb could be delivered.

“Of course,” the Orc Lord answered when Guzmog took a step forward, and several things happened all at once. 

To speak the truth, Bilbo had expected _something_ to happen, although he did not know when and how, however, considering the turn of events, it could have ended far worse.

Standing next to the Hobbit now, Guzmog growled, a dark and feral sound, his posture tensing until he looked to be about to lunge out at the Dwarves if Bilbo did not stop him. Dwalin, the seasoned and experienced warrior he was, had dropped his hands to his axes and was already drawing his weapons, while the King under the Mountain reached for Orcrist to cleave through the Orc if necessary. There was a commotion from across the room where both the Dwarves and the Orcs leaped to their feet and unsheathed their weapons, and Kíli and Fíli, who had been on guard duty to look out from their position on the gates, hurried through the arcs into the great hall.

For the shortest of moments, the Halfling played with the thought to let it all happen and stop it before someone was in danger to lose their head, however, he dismissed the idea swiftly, but not before Guzmog could grind out between clenched teeth, “Dwarves less loyal than Orcs! You owe _Grat-izub_ more! He saved puny life of you!”

Bilbo nearly took a step back when he heard Guzmog speak up for him in front of the Dwarves, and although he was deeply grateful, he feared the Orc had taken it all too far to be stopped in time. “Guzmog, please,” the Hobbit said, but his words were drowned out by Dwalin's offended cry. 

“Do not compare us to your vile kind, Orc pest!” The Dwarf's shout was answered by those of his companions and the Orcs alike – even if the latter had not understood _what_ had been said, and had more reacted to _how_ it had been said – and Bilbo felt a frustrated cry claw up its way through his throat and into the open when Dwalin attempted to cross the distance between the Orc and himself in wide strides.

Twin axes clashed against an Orcish blade with a clang that rung loud through Erebor's great halls, echoing off the walls to be carried deep into the mountain. Bilbo watched in horror as Thorin and the other Dwarves as well as the Orcs came forward to join the fighting, brushing off every good intentions at keeping the fragile peace the Hobbit had build between them, and soon the hall was filled with the sounds of fighting and war cries in Khuzdul and Orcish. 

And inside the Hobbit, something snapped with a force that set his teeth on edge and made his small body shake.

“Stop!” he bellowed in Westron, and then again in Orcish, and his voice was loud and carried over the sounds of the small battle taking place before him. “ _ENOUGH!_ ”

Silence fell over the hall so suddenly it was eerie, and Bilbo was breathing hard as if he had been the one fighting. “ _Orcs_ ,” he finally barked in their tongue, directing a glare full of anger at each of them. “ _Lower your weapons and step back, this is not the enemy we wish to fight!_ ”

They obeyed and bowed their heads, and did not dear to even utter a word of protest, not when faced with the fury of their Lord. The Dwarves watched them, confused and wary, gazes flickering towards the Halfling who had commanded the Orcs to retreat in their own, dark tongue. There was concern in their eyes and written all over the bearded faces, but Bilbo paid it no mind, to caught up in the anger rolling through every vein of his body.

“And you,” he turned to Thorin, hands clenched to fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. The pain was dull and muffled, far away and held back by the wave of burning betrayal setting his insides alight. “I know you don't trust me, but you left me behind. _After all I have done for you,_ you left me at Azog the Defiler's mercy!” His words were accompanied by a spray of saliva, but he did not care, too eager to throw the ugly, sharp truth at those who had abandoned him, hoping it would slice into them, show them every inch of what they had done, unknowingly or not.

“Left me to become his _mate_!” 

Thorin flinched as the last word was cried into the silence, something dark clouding his eyes, but Bilbo did not want to name it. When the Dwarven king took a step back, he followed, pushed further. “I _waited for you_ to come and help me, but you abandoned me! Every night I was dragged into Azog's chambers, I waited and begged for you to come, but you never did!

“See what I have become! What he turned me into,” the Orc Lord bellowed and ripped off his vest, nearly tearing it in half, to bare his chest and all the marks he carried on his skin to the King under the Mountain – the king Bilbo had sworn to help,who had, for a short time, become _his_ king. “He humiliated me! Poured his corrupted blood into my veins and took me, and _you did not come_!”

His chest was heaving, lungs gulping air greedily and pressing it back out audibly. The Hobbit knew he should be embarrassed by his confessions, but he could not, not yet, at least, when hurt and fury and disappointment was still so alive inside him that there was no room for anything else. Bilbo's next words were silent ones, but he had no doubt the Dwarves would not hear them. “When it was clear I was on my own, I made the best of the situation, and my guards are loyal to me, have already proven it several times. I brought you Bolg Azogson's head, and I understand you cannot trust me fully. 

“But trust me at least in this; I _will_ kill Azog, whatever the cost.”

 

 

He was alone in the dark, vast halls and tunnels of Erebor. He had left the others behind, had told Guzmog to stay calm, and if he was to return and see they had had a fight again, he would personally skin the Orc, friend or not. 

He needed the silence and the cold darkness of the abandoned city, needed room to breathe without someone scrutinizing or looming over him, needed time to think.

He did not carry a torch, saw enough as it was and wandered on, deep into the Lonely Mountain's insides where his own footsteps where the only sound.

Eventually, the embarrassment and humiliation came, doused the anger inside him and he sunk to the ground.

Leaning against a cold, black wall somewhere in the belly of a mountain, Bilbo Baggins cried until he could no longer.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to say thank you all again for the comments and Kudos, I really enjoy reading that you like this story. 
> 
> My friend [Capbadgered](http://capbadgered.tumblr.com/) on tumblr made more fanart of [Bilbo riding a warg](http://capbadgered.tumblr.com/post/46773187532/more-fanart-for-pretty-little-orc-lord-as-per) and you should once again check it and her blog out!  
> [s-dari](http://s-dari.tumblr.com/) also drew some amazing artwork, this time of [Guzmog](http://s-dari.tumblr.com/post/47537902087/so-i-decided-to-doodle-up-some-headshots-of-guzmog), our favourite (and fabulous) [Orc and his warg](http://s-dari.tumblr.com/post/47563089658/its-a-full-body-ref-of-guzmog-and-his-warg-but)!
> 
> So I heard Guzmog/Bilbo is a thing now? Some of you mentioned shipping them, and people, ship away! To me they are more a BROTP, but if you want to write/draw/anything them, do it.  
> [My dear Nyurr](http://nyurrwithcheese.tumblr.com/) helped me to decide on a name for the mentioned ship, and we came to the conclusion that Bilmog sounds better than Guzbo, so, all aboard the _S.S.Bilmog_!  
>  You can also find me on [tumblr](http://fifty-shades-of-gandalf-the-grey.tumblr.com/) where you can follow, browse and send me an ask. If you have suggestions and ideas considering Pretty Little Orc Lord or anything else, tell me, I'll be happy to receive messages from you. Well, enough of me talking, go on and read, I hope you will enjoy it!

 

The silence that had fallen over the great hall was impenetrable and heavy, thick like a blanket woven of shame and regret. Thorin felt it pressing down onto his shoulders with the weight of a mountain and he went outside onto the gates, hoping sunlight and the brush of wind on his skin could sooth his nerves at least a bit. The other Dwarves had returned to their fire and sat down, all of them caught in their own thoughts, and he did not even bother to look at the Orcs, convinced they would not try to begin another fight after he had seen how utterly they obeyed the Hobbit's commands.

Outside, the king found his nephews, which had returned to their guard duty, and he told them to go back inside and get some rest, hurt when he saw the upset expressions on their young faces. He knew they saw Bilbo as a friend, so it hurt them all the more to know what had happened to the Halfling in those four months he had spent in the Misty Mountain's caverns. They did not look at their uncle when they brushed past him, eyes on the ground and lips pressed into thin lines of sorrow, and Thorin wished he could return to the cliff and the fateful night to repay his debt to Bilbo, free him from Azog's claws so that he was never taken. But he knew no being wandering Middle Earth was powerful enough to rewrite their history, and he wanted to curse Morgoth for breeding the Orcs and releasing them onto this world. However, he felt not only the Valar and his creation Azog were to blame for the fate that had befallen the Hobbit.

Winter's wind blew harshly over the gate and tugged on his hair and clothes with cold fingers that almost felt accusing. The clouds hiding the sun were thick and unyielding, mirroring those that had spread over the king's mind mockingly. Thorin stepped forwards and leaned against the gates' breastwork. Beneath him, the Orcs' wargs were pacing restlessly, for they had heard the upheaval taking place above them with their sharp ears but had no way of making sure their riders were still alive and sound. Some of them looked up at him, baring their teeth with an angry growl and Thorin was relieved over finding himself out of the beasts' reach.

One of the wargs, the one with silver fur he had seen Bilbo ride, had its broad head tilted back to look at the Dwarf, and its jaws were parted to release a sad and longing whine that was carried onto the gates by the wind.

The sight of Bilbo's bare chest was vivid on his mind when Thorin closed his eyes, the black ink blunt against his pale skin where it had not been touched by the sunlight in months. Standing as near to the Hobbit as he had, it had been impossible to miss the marks and bruises the Defiler had left all over the small body, red bite marks caused by pointy teeth and scratches dug into skin with sharp fingernails, standing out against the smooth surface. Every mark was an accusation thrown at Thorin, a reminder of what he had done, of what he had not stopped, and for all he knew, it felt like he had been the one in the Defiler's place, biting and tearing and soiling with corruption.

Not once since Bilbo had returned, Thorin had seen him smile genuinely, withdrawn eyes always betraying the twist of his lips. More often than not, there had been a tinge of bitterness turning the meaning of the gesture around. Bilbo's new strength and determination had come at the cost of his happiness, and the Dwarf thought of the anger he had seen inside the Hobbit's eyes, gleaming embers that needed only a spark to reignite into a blazing fire strong enough to burn what was around him. The Bilbo that had opened his door to Thorin had been gentle and soft, and often scared, but in the important situations he had shown bravery and courage worthy of the best Dwarves Thorin knew. However, that Bilbo was gone, lost along the way, and the Orc Lord who had come to his gates offered severed heads as a present and demanded another.

His fingers tightened around the breastwork until his knuckles turned white and his joints groaned with pain. Even his thick clothes were not enough to hold off the cold around him, creeping up his calfs and seeping through his skin into his bones.

And so the King under the Mountain stood, thinking of the Hobbit who had become an Orc Lord and lost his smile, until the Horizon started to turn dark with dusk and he went back inside. Below, the warg was still whining.

 

 

_Bilbo was wandering. In front of him, hills spread, green as an emerald, but far more alive than a precious stone could ever be._

_How can one delve for cold metal and stones if there is so much beauty all around them, the Hobbit wondered and felt his lips stretch into a smile. Beneath his naked feet, the grass tickled, warmed by the spring sun, and everywhere around him there were flowers blooming and trees sprouting new leaves as if they were trying to outshine one another._

_Bilbo walked on through the hills, bathed in the sunlight and breathed in the fresh, clean air. His gait had a delighted spring to it, and when he reached Hobbiton, he took his time to stop at every fence he passed to greet his neighbours cheerily, and when he walked on, Hamfast Gamgee had come out of his door, for he had already seen him coming up the way._

“ _Master Baggins,” he greeted and lifted a big sack from the ground, filled to the rim with thick and ripe vegetables from his gardens. “My Bell let me plant too many again,” he informed Bilbo and walked towards the small gate. “I figured you might want some.”_

_Bilbo laughed and accepted the present thankfully, catching a whiff of the goods in his hands, and he told his young gardener that he was sure they would be delicious. They talked a bit, mostly about root vegetables as usual, and then about Bilbo's last stroll to the border. Hamfast's eyes grew wide while he listened to the other Hobbit talking about the singing he'd heard in the woods at night, beautiful and otherworldly, in a language Bilbo did not know, and both agreed in hushed voices it must have been Elves wandering through the forest on their way to the west. Hamfast had a cousin, he told Bilbo, who had seen them once when he had been out looking for mushrooms. The lad had taken a nap at the roots of a tree and woken at dusk to singing and silent footsteps, and when he had crouched down behind a fallen trunk to risk a glimpse at the way, he'd seen them._

“ _They were tall and all had long hair, he'd said,” Hamfast recounted in awe. “Said they'd walked right past him, singing the whole time, and they'd gleamed in the moonlight.”_

_The younger Hobbit nodded, eyes still so wide Bilbo thought they might fall right out of their sockets and onto the ground._

_They chatted a bit more, however, Bilbo's mind wandered off, towards the old books he had in his library, those about Elves and magic, with pictures of fair faces fringed by long, silky hair that reflected light like mirror and had pointy ears sticking out between its strands. The Took inside him urged him on, told him to walk past his Hobbit hole and further, out of Hobbiton, out of the Shire and to the east, were his maps told him Rivendell was, were Elves dwellt and sang and he could sit and listen and watch._

_Eventually, when a tiny head with blond curls appeared in the open doorway and watched with big round eyes, Bilbo said his goodbyes and went home, the sack a heavy weight in his hand. He'd been wandering for days and was now looking forward to a warm bath and a soft bed, and maybe a good potato soup before he rested._

_He opened the green door to his Hobbit hole and stepped inside—_

— _onto cold, hard stone. Gone were the wooden floorboards and the armchair in front of the hearth. Gone was his Hobbit hole, his home and the warmth. And there, on a stone throne covered in big, dirty furs, sat Azog, the Defiler, the Pale Orc, and reached out to him a large hand with thick fingers and a cut on his palm, black blood dripping to the ground. Bilbo's vest and shirt and trousers were gone, and he was standing naked but for the black lines on his skin in front of the Orc, cold creeping up his legs, up and up and up, until it reached his chest and seeped into him, wrapped around his heart with fingers made of ice, and squeezed._

“Akashuga-izub, _” Azog rasped, almost fondly, rough syllables rubbing over the Hobbit's skin, cutting into him. “_ Come. _”_

_To Bilbo's right and left were the Dwarves, watching as he took an unsteady step forwards, mute and indifferent, only moving when he walked past them and further, towards the Defiler. He could feel their eyes on him, and he wanted to cover himself, cover the tattoos, his nakedness, but his hands would not lift from his side. Bilbo was close to the throne now, so close he could smell the corrupted blood and musk and sweat and rotten flesh, and he did only stop when he stood between Azog's broad and muscular thighs._

_The Orc sighed, contentedly, a low raspy sound rumbling in his chest, and his thin lips curled into a smile that showed pointy teeth made to rip flesh from bones. “_ Mine, _” Azog said again while he let his hands roam over the Hobbit's skin, pinching and scratching and feeling every inch of it._

“Yours, _” Bilbo agreed against his will, the word disgusting and heavy on his tongue, and he wanted to bite down on it before it escaped his lips, wanted to stop it, crush it between his teeth, but it was already out, could not be taken back once it was spoken. And that he wanted it to be a lie did not make it less the truth._

“Come, _” Azog cooed, voice like gravel grinding over steel, making the Hobbit shiver and a voice scream in his head. He moved nevertheless and climbed onto the leather-clad lap, curled in on himself and leaned his head against the broad chest that rose and fell with deep breaths which brushed hot over the Hobbit's skin and brought the smell of decay with them._

_Hard and muscled arms encircled him, pressed him closer against the scarred chest and the white, damp skin._

“Mine, _” Azog said again as the Dwarves watched on._

He startled awake and felt cold sweat on his skin and his heart beating an erratic rhythm against his ribcage, his lungs hurt with the effort to suck air into them, but there was never enough, and his head spun. There was darkness all around him, thick and impenetrable in the moments his eyes needed to adjust, and the hard press of stone against his back and bottom made fear clench his insides with a tightening grip. 

Orc cave, he thought, and, _Azog_ , Azog will come for me and drag me to the furs. If possible, his heart started pounding even faster, as if it wanted to break through the bones and right out of his chest and run away when he could not, anxiety weighing his limbs down like he was rooted to the ground. 

It took him several moments to notice his quick breaths were the only sound in the silence, no laughing or talking in the harsh Orcish language piercing through the darkness. Finally, his eyes adjusted, and all he saw was the grey tunnel wall opposite of him. He had come down to the mines, he suddenly remembered, memories from what had happened, _what he had said_ in the great hall clashing over him like a flood and he felt like he was drowning in the shame they brought.

Spurred on by rage and the suffocating weight of his secrets, he had needed to lash out at the Dwarves and tell them the cruel truth, and the relief when the words were spat out into their home, carrying all the corruption of an Orc cave, soiling the precious stone of the Lonely Mountain. Something inside him had opened, locks snapping, breaking, until something hideous had clawed its way out of him, presented itself in the bright light, writhing and twisting in the middle of the group to show all of itself – _Azog's mate_ with all his tattoos, bite marks and scratches, wearing his armour, riding his warg, being pressed into the furs nearly every night, and besmirched through and through with blood and stinking seed.

For a moment, a short and blissful moment in which he had seen Thorin's face twist into a grimace of pain and shame, Bilbo had felt _free._ Free of the monster hiding inside him, free to speak the words, free to bath in his anger and say ' _You did this to me_ ' and watch as the accusations found their targets and embedded themselves deep inside, unforgiving barbs tearing on the Dwarven king's guilt.

But shame had followed and doused the spark that had set him alight to begin with, and when he had made his way deep into the mountain's mines, his footsteps had been heavy, however, not as heavy as his heart.

 

 

Bilbo emerged from Erebor's depths on the morning of the next day, right before Thorin had considered sending a search party after him, Guzmog told his lord. He had only nodded and sat down leaned against the wall next to the Orcs' fire, his vest back in place and held together by his hands to hide what he had shown the day before so openly.

Nobody had mentioned his swollen and red-rimmed eyes and the streaks tears had carved through the dirt on his cheeks, and he was glad about their feigned ignorance. Bilbo wished he could undo what had happened, could take the words back and hide the monster again, drag it back to that dark place inside him and lock the door tightly, but doing such was well beyond his reach. At least, maybe, he could forget, since it seemed the Dwarves were more than willing to do so, none of them speaking up and asking questions the Hobbit would not like giving answers to. 

However, forgetting was not something that usually worked for Bilbo. He had tried, oh, he had, over months, every day, had tried to wipe his memories clean of the filth pale hands had left in their wake, and he had never been successful in it. No, forgetting was nothing Bilbo was good at.

Even the dream of the night before was still so excruciatingly vivid in his mind, no haze fogging the images and the cold and the indifferent eyes directed at him, and the Hobbit pulled his knees to his chest and slumped his shoulders until he could feel his curls brushing against them.

 

 

Thorin found the Hobbit standing on the gates, leaned against the breastwork, a dark silhouette against the day's dying light, only his outlines rimmed with gold. The king stopped for a moment in his tracks and watched as the wind tugged on bright curls and brown leather. Suddenly, he felt unsure of interrupting the tranquil, almost peaceful scene before him. He could not see the marks in this light, and if it were not for the clothes, he could be fooled into believing he was still looking at Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, gentry and gentle and kind, inexperienced in wielding a weapon but no less willing to do so if need be. It was like looking back in time, and for a moment, Thorin wondered what would have happened if Azog had not taken the Hobbit from them that fateful night. Would he still be with them as he had promised, willing to fight a dragon for a home that was not his own, or would he have long abandoned them and returned to his peaceful hole as the King had accused him before of doing, not keeping the promise he had given after they had escaped Goblin Town?

“Bilbo.” The word was out before Thorin even realized he had spoken. He wished he could reach out and take it back, however, it was too late, and even if the Hobbit did not turn and look at him, or open his mouth to answer, it was clear he had heard in the way his shoulders tensed only the slightest bit. Thorin waited, considering again to leave, but the moment's spell was broken and what had happened could not be undone. So he took a few steps forward hesitantly, leaving the distance between them behind to lean against the breastwork next to Bilbo and look down at the warg pack pacing below. The silver beast was gazing back at them, sitting on its hind legs, the large head tilted back. Whereas the others were continually in motion, glancing hither and thither restlessly, unable to stand still or keep quiet, the Hobbit's beast was sitting calmly, its posture unsettlingly attentive for an animal.

When Bilbo still had not spoken and Thorin felt the need to break the silence, he said, “your beast is majestic, Master Baggins.” Finally, the Hobbit looked up and at the Dwarf, but only to offer him an incredulous glance before he turned his attention to the warg in question. 

“Yes, it is quite fitting for it's master's position, is it not?” There was a certain edge to his words, a stinging venom, and Thorin tried not to cringe, realizing his mistake of complimenting anything to do with the Pale Orc far too late. For how Bilbo had reacted, he could have admired the black lines tattooed onto his skin, and the Dwarf cursed inwardly, regretting that he sometimes was rather unskilled with words. He had come to apologize to the Hobbit and ask to be forgiven, however, he feared he had only worsened the gap that had began to stretch between them from the very beginning of their journey. But Thorin Oakenshield was nothing if not determined, and after some time of uncomfortable silence had gone by, he finally found the courage to do what he had come for.

“Bilbo,” he began anew, hands clenching around the breastwork's metal unconsciously. “I am deeply so—”

“ _Don't!_ ” 

The Hobbit's voice was harsh, an angered hiss, and green eyes were staring at him, cold and hard. Small shoulders trembling with tension and fingers curling into fists, Bilbo turned to face him fully, brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin, accusing line, and he was ferocious, full of cruel and savage wrath. An Orc lord was standing before Thorin now, and had he not known what the Halfling had come to Erebor for, he would reach for his weapon to defend himself. “I do not want pity, least of all from you,” Bilbo spat, disgust over the idea written all over his mien, and Thorin swallowed his words of defence. It would not do to let himself be guided by his hurt pride.

“It was not my intent to pity or anger you, Bilbo,” he assured, voice held carefully calm, although he felt heat rising in his cheeks, brought not so much by embarrassment as by irritation. “I simply came to ask forgiveness of you.”

The Hobbit laughed short and bitter, expression full of disbelief. “Then you came in vain, King under the Mountain. Forgiveness can be earned and is not simply given. Not from me.”

And with these words the Halfling stormed back inside, leaving the Dwarven king behind speechless.

 

 

The Elves came on the third day after the fight between Dwarves and Orcs, and with them the men of Lake-town. Bombur was the one to announce their arrival, as he had been on guard duty, and Dwarves as well as Orcs joined him on the gates, looking out towards the Mirkwood as the army broke through the line of trees, lead by Thranduil himself.

The Elvish armour glinted in the sunlight as they walked through the valley surrounding the Lonely Mountain, horns ringing out, blue and green banners flapping in the wind. It was an impressive sight, more and more Elves and Men streaming from the forest and onto the plain, the two armies growing steadily. In the front, King Thranduil of Mirkwood sat tall upon his mount, a large elk with great antlers that looked strong enough to carry a warg on them easily. It was an impressive sight that left the Hobbit standing speechless between his companions, eyes roaming over the warriors walking towards them, taking in every detail, the fine armour and weapons.

“Gandalf is with them,” Fíli said. He had climbed onto the breastwork to have better sight and had spotted the wizard walking next to Thranduil in the front, grey robes billowing in the wind. 

“Yes, he told me he was on his way to the Elven King's court when I met him in Mirkwood,” Bilbo told those of the Dwarves who did not know yet. “He said he would try to convince the Elves to help us fight the Pale Orc.”

“Let us hope he has succeeded, then,” Thorin said, frowning, and Bilbo remembered what Balin had told him of the time Smaug conquered Erebor, of the Elves turning their backs on the Dwarves when they were in great need. At least Orcs and Dwarves had one thing in common, if only their shared hatred for the fair people.

As the armies continued their way to the mountain, four riders came forth from the rows of soldiers, two of them carrying a banner each, one in the green of Mirkwood, the other blue for Lake-town. As they rode fast over the barren land, the King under the Mountain climbed onto the breastwork next to his nephew, and Bilbo gestured Guzmog to help him do the same. So they stood, waiting for the messengers' arrival, and Kíli nocked an arrow, just to be safe. Beneath them, the wargs growled and arched their backs, baring their teeth, and the Hobbit called down to them to stand back before they could pounce and attack. Obediently the beasts retreated to the very edge of the gates, but held their wary gazes on the arriving messengers steadily. When those saw the group of wargs, they reined their horses, which danced nervously, eyes wide with fear over the great wolves snarling at them. 

“The wargs will not harm you, if you do not harm them,” Thorin called out, and cast a glance at Bilbo, who nodded in reassurance, mien stern. “Speak, and tell us what you came here for.”

“We come in the name of Esgaroth and the Forest,” one of the Men cried, letting his steed take a few steps forward. “We seek word with Thorin Thrain's son Oakenshield and the Halfling Baggins,” he stopped and sought out Bilbo with his eyes, taking in the Orcish armour, and the Hobbit lifted his chin slightly. “Whom they call an Orc Lord. King Thranduil of the Wood Elves and Bard of Esgaroth wish to speak to you about the defence of Erebor against the Pale Orc Azog.”

“Tell them then that we will come when your camps are set and night falls so we can hold war council. Until then we will remain in Erebor,” Thorin answered. “Now go.”

Both Orcs and Dwarves looked on as the messenger who had spoken nodded and turned to ride back along the others. Only when the riders had returned to the armies, Bilbo and Thorin slipped down from the breastwork onto the gates and back inside, and Balin fell into step beside them. 

“What will you do,” he asked, “when they seek payment for their help, Thorin, my King?”

“I am sure they will, my friend.” The Dwarf sighed resigned and rubbed a hand over his eyes, thinking about the treasure deep in the mountain's belly and the Arkenstone on top of the piles of gold and silver and mithril. “But I did not reclaim my home to give away its treasures to the vultures who turned their backs when Smaug came.” A frown settled on his face, clouding his eyes, and Bilbo threw up his hands in exasperation. 

“Don't be foolish, Thorin!” he cried and the Dwarf flinched in surprise, then straightened. “Foolish? These are the treasures of my father and his father, and I will not besmirch their memory by giving away what belonged to them! Erebor is mine now, and I will defend it and its mines until the last drop of my blood is shed!”  
The Dwarf's voice had risen with every word until he was nearly yelling at the Hobbit, and the others were drawn in around them. The Orcs watched from the distance, hands wandering towards their weapons slowly, but Bilbo raised a hand and signalled them to stand down, for this was not a quarrel fit to be solved by weapons and brute force.

“Yes, of course.” The Hobbit scowled and shook his head, making clear what exactly he thought of the Dwarves' willingness to throw their lives away for some precious metal. “You and your men will defend Erebor's treasures with their life. But who will hold onto these memories if none of them is left? Who will sing of Erebor and its halls when there is no one to remember it, Thorin?” Bilbo's voice was soft, almost pleading when he went on, “at least hear them out before you make rash assumptions.”

“I will, but even if Elves and Men are not willing to help without payment, my cousin Dain will. He is already on his way here and his army is strong and fierce,” Thorin retorted, arms crossed over his chest and chin lifted with pride, and Bilbo nodded. “This is all I can ask of you, King under the Mountain.” 

He turned to retreat to the Orcs' fire, but was held back by a large hand closing around his upper arm, and he looked at Thorin over his shoulder, resisting the urge to pull his arm away from the restraining fingers. In his peripheral vision, he saw Guzmog straighten his shoulders, however, he was certain the Dwarf meant no harm.

“It would be a glorious death,” the King under the Mountain told the Halfling and let go of the arm, and Bilbo looked him over for a moment, taking in his determination and pride, the straight posture and the way he squared his shoulders.

“But a death no less,” he finally said and walked away.

 

 

At dusk, Thorin and Bilbo were lowered down from the gates. In front of them, the camp of Elves and Men spread wide, numberless tents had been erected and between them fires had been lit to cook and keep the soldiers warm. In their midst was a large green tent, guarded by Elves in fine armour, and Bilbo had no doubt that the council would be held there. Behind him, Zukbul and Obduf climbed down the rope to join him. Guzmog had been told to stay behind, since he was the only Orc capable of Westron, and therefore his lord had ordered him to uphold the peace between Dwarves and Orcs in Erebor. The tension in the halls was thick enough even without the barrier of different speech, and Bilbo did not want to return to a fight and injured friends when a war was about to happen. Of course, Guzmog had not liked the prospect of keeping an eye on the others while Bilbo was about to walk into an army of Men and Elves with only two guards, however, the Orc lord had threatened him with chaining him to one of the pillars in the great hall if need be.

So it came that Bilbo chose Zukbul and Obduf to accompany him, for they were two of the smaller Orcs and therefore looked less intimidating. However, he had seen both fight and knew they were skilled with their weapons and able to provide protection if needed. Thorin took Dwalin and Balin as his guard – although he would not call them that but rather his advisers in front of the other members of the council. 

While the Halfling waited for the Dwarves to come down from the gates, Bilbo's warg walked over to him, fondly pressing a damp snout to its master's face, and the Hobbit tangled his fingers into the thick fur and scratched behind the beast's ears, whispering gentle reassurances and telling it to stay behind and wait for him, he would be all right. The Orcs joined their lord, positioning themselves on each of his sides, hands on their weapons and shoulders squared, eyes narrowing to dare anyone to make a move and bear the consequences. Thorin walked up to them, mien stern and determined, and nodded shortly before they began their way through the rows of tents. 

Bilbo was no fool, and he had expected their arrival would draw attention, even if Thorin alone would walk through the camp, but now, in the company of an Orc lord, and furthermore, two real Orcs, it seemed all Men came out to look. He felt eyes scrutinizing him and heard whispering, saw heads turning towards them and elbows nudging those who did not look yet. He had hoped the late hour would provide some privacy, but it had been of no avail, and he felt cold sweat on his hands and a lump growing in his throat. On his right, Zukbul growled lowly, pointy teeth bared, and some of the Men took a step back, eyes widened. Obduf pressed closer to his lord, his arm brushing against Bilbo's side reassuringly, and the Hobbit felt warm fondness spreading in his belly. 

“ _Hush now, friend,_ ” he whispered to Zukbul in Orcish and lifted a hand to press his fingers against the Orc's elbow soothingly. “ _We're here to talk, not to fight_.” Zukbul nodded jerkily, but did not cease to look at the soldiers around them with narrowed eyes.

“Did you hear? He speaks in their tongue!” one of them whispered to the others with a mixture of fear and amazement, and Bilbo felt a shudder wandering down his spine that was not quite brought by the evening's chill.

“Of course he does! They call him an Orc lord for a reason,” another exclaimed, louder this time, and when the Hobbit looked up he was met by a hateful glare. The man who had spoken stood tall, looming even over the Orcs by a few inches, his arms crossed over his chest. “I wonder why they don't drag him along in chains.” The man spat on the ground at Bilbo's feet, lifting his chin in challenge, and the Halfling stopped short, taking a deep breath. Thorin, who had noticed the Hobbit's hesitancy, ceased walking as well and turned to get a better hold of the situation, blue eyes flickering from the man to the Halfling and back again. The Dwarf opened his mouth to say something, most likely to come to the Hobbit's defence, but he was interrupted by Bilbo, who straightened and squared his shoulders, eyes directing a cold glare at the man.

“They did not clap me in irons for they saw what happened to the last one who tried.” He was relieved to notice his voice did not betray his nervousness. It was a lie, sure, however, the bluff would hopefully do. “His head made for a great present to the King under the Mountain.” Bilbo smirked in a way somewhat close to a snarl, all teeth and sharp edges, and shot a glance at the Dwarf in question, who had his eyebrows raised, however, the Hobbit thought he saw something like a small smile tug at the corners of his lips, and in a bout of unexpected confidence, the Hobbit smiled and cocked his head, saying, “have a good night and rest well. You will need it.”

The man was gaping when Bilbo turned away from him to go on his way, and when he locked eyes with Dwalin, the Dwarf shook his head in amusement and the Hobbit felt a genuine smile taking hold of his lips over the silent praise. “Let's go on then, I don't think the others will enjoy to be kept waiting.”

 

 

The Elven guards opened the tent flaps without being asked to, not sparing so much as a glance for the Dwarves and Orcs arriving, seemingly unaffected by the strange company. Thorin was to enter first, a stoic frown on his face, his distaste for the Elves visible. Bilbo and his Orcs followed, and he was slightly taken aback by the tent's insides. King Thranduil seemed to think it important to make his royalty clear even when residing in a war camp; the cloth walls were decorated with his banner – mighty antlers stitched onto a warm forest green – and there was a great table in the tent's midst, a throne decorated with more antlers at its head, and on it sat King Thranduil, a crown of leafs and branches made from silver on his long, golden hair. His demeanour, even when he simply rested on his throne, was so kingly and majestic that Bilbo felt very small and unimportant in his company, and for a while he could not tear his eyes away from the Elf and his otherworldly beauty.

“King Thorin, Bilbo,” Gandalf greeted from Thranduil's side. “These are King Thranduil of the Wood Elves, his son Legolas,” the wizard pointed at a young looking Elf standing on the throne's other side, and the lad inclined his head in greeting. “And Bard of Esgaroth, slayer of the Dragon Smaug.” Bilbo hurried to bow deeply when he was introduced by Gandalf, only distantly aware of being called _Orc Lord Bilbo Baggins_ , too occupied with not toppling over. Zukbul and Obduf followed his lead begrudgingly and bowed short, their eyes never leaving the Elven King. Thorin did not bow altogether but held his chin high defiantly, which was answered with a raised eyebrow, and the Hobbit feared the council would find an end before it even begun. Curse Dwarves and their stubbornness. 

The grey wizard gestured for them to sit down at the table after the introductions had been finished, and Bilbo was relieved, for he had feared his knees might give out if he had been left to stand any longer.

“Bilbo Baggins, eh?” Bard said when he threw himself into the chair across from the Hobbit with genuine curiosity and only a small hint of the wariness that had been so prominent in his fellow men. “I heard of you. They say you were captured by the Pale Orc and made an Orc Lord,” he went on, his eyes flickering towards the two guards standing behind the Halfling's chair, watching him in turn. Bilbo looked at his hands, spread flat on the table, unable to bear being scrutinized so openly like a peculiar creature. Clammy uneasiness took a hold of him, and he pressed his fingertips into the table's wood, his brows drawing together as he answered with false calmness, “they are speaking the truth, then.” 

The following silence carried a tinge of surprise, and the Hobbit held his breath, glancing at Gandalf from beneath his fringe to see the wizard shake his head, bushy eyebrows drawing in above sad eyes. Thorin, on the other hand, observed the Halfling cautiously, his forehead wrinkled. Eventually, Thranduil broke the silence, his voice almost as indifferent as if he was talking about the weather when he said, “they also say you are Azog's mate. Is that the truth as well?”

All eyes were turned on Bilbo, and their gazes rested heavy on the poor Hobbit's shoulders, making his skin crawl and his throat clench with embarrassment and dread. How far had word of his defilement spread, he wondered. Did already all of Hobbiton know what had become of the queer Baggins, and did they talk in hushed voices that he had it coming when he ran off with the Dwarven strangers on a preposterous quest? The thoughts made his skin go hot and cold in turn, and he felt his fingers clenching into fists and his heart's beating picking up in pace. To Bilbo's right, Thorin cleared his throat.

“I dare say that this is not our concern, and we are here to discuss Azog's impending attack, nothing else,” the Dwarf said diplomatically to come to the Hobbit's aid, but the Elven king would have none of it.

“Is it not, oh King under the Mountain?” The way he spoke the title, it sounded more of an insult than an act of respect. “We should know where Lord Baggins' loyalties lie before we decide to fight along him, should we not?”

Thorin rose from his seat and leaned in over the table, a snide retort already on his lips when he was stopped by Bilbo speaking up.

“Yes,” the Hobbit admitted, the word a sound so sharp it cut through the air to hang above their heads heavily. “I was declared Azog's mate.” He turned his eyes on the Dwarven king, green, hard gaze boring into blue, and Thorin was the first to look away. 

“But you will find that _mate_ is not _beloved_ , and that affection altogether is something the Pale Orc is not capable of. There is a reason the Orcish tongue has no word for love but only lust.” He took a deep breath in the hopes his shoulders would stop trembling before he continued, “my loyalties lie not with Azog the Defiler, quite the contrary, as it is. And I will fight to defend Erebor and not hesitate when I meet him in battle.”

It was not quite the Hobbit's words but the fire in his eyes that convinced the other council members of him being sincere.

 

 

After that, the council turned to other matters. They sat long into the night, fighting over how Men and Elves should be paid for their help, and Bilbo felt the beginning of a headache stinging behind his eyes when the shouting did not stop. As expected, Thorin would not allow his ancestors' treasures to be shared with Elves and Men, and Thranduil demanded nothing less than the Arkenstone for his deeds. Gandalf tried to calm both parties and find an agreement, but it was to no avail. The Hobbit kept quiet and only spoke up when Azog's plans needed to be explained further, not willing to join the quarrel over precious metals and stones that meant nothing to him, and Thorin already knew what the prize for his help was. So they were running in circles, not anywhere close to the goal. Once or twice, Bilbo feared it could truly get violent until Gandalf interfered, his deep, booming voice drowning out the others, the room shrinking around him, shadows creeping over the walls. Thranduil, of course, was not impressed by the display of power, however, Thorin and Bard quickly fell silent whenever the wizard got hot tempered.

Eventually, after hours and hours of talking – and occasional yelling – Gandalf finally declared the council to be over for the day, and Bilbo left the tent as fast as possible without being rude. The cold air was a balm to his nerves, freeing his breaths and brushing over his skin soothingly, however, the nagging sensation that had settled in his mind since the beginning of the council could not be silenced. Thorin had spoken up for him, had tried to defend him in front of the Elves and Bard by steering the conversation to other matters. He should be grateful, he thought. The Dwarf knew that the topic of Azog and the four months spent in the Orc cave was nothing Bilbo liked to discuss, however, all the Hobbit felt was irritation, sharp and bold in his mind.

He did not need to be defended by Thorin Oakenshield of all people. He was no helpless Hobbit from the Shire any more, no feeble Halfling unable to wield a weapon on his own or talk up against an Elven King and a Man. He was an Orc lord. He had defeated Bolg Azogson and brought his head before the King under the Mountain.

It was an impulse, one tinged with anger, that made Bilbo turn and reach out for Thorin, close his hand around the broad arm and pull the Dwarf forward. Only thanks to surprise, Thorin stumbled and bumped against the Hobbit's chest so he had to steady himself by grasping the Halfling's shoulders. However, before the king could ask what exactly had gotten into Bilbo, the Hobbit leaned in, his mouth close to the Dwarf's ear, hissing, “I am _not_ weak. I do _not_ need you to fight my battles, Thorin Oakenshield.”

And with that, he let go of the bewildered Dwarf and walked at a smart pace to the gates, calling for his Orc guard over his shoulder to follow him. “I am going for a ride. Do not expect me back before the end of the night!”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, there's a lot of stuff happening in my life right now. But I'll say it again, I will finish this fanfic, no matter how long it may take!

 

Bilbo rode. Above him, the night sky stretched, a black blanket dotted with white stars, not a single cloud obscuring the view. The cold wind bit with sharp teeth and cut into his eyes, bringing tears to them, but the Hobbit would not let the warg slow down, relished in the feeling of being carried wide and fast by the creature. Zukbul and Obduf followed, yet kept a far enough distance to make him sometimes forget they were still there. It was a peaceful moment of solitude, the only sounds the wind in his ears and the panting of his warg, no Dwarves around with eyes full of pity, no Men and Elves asking questions they had no right to have answered, no Thorin Oakenshield treating him like a meek and delicate creature. “ _Irz-lat_ ,” he whispered again and again, and his beast obeyed, speeding up and eating up the barren land with wide strides until dead trunks and the Mirkwood at his side turned into a blurred line lacking any details. He could feel the warg's muscles move beneath him, felt its strength, and its warmth seeping through the thick, silky fur and the leather of his breech cloth into his skin, and he tangled his fingers into the silver coat at the beast's neck, holding on tightly. It had been moments like these that had helped him forget in the four months in the Orc cave, moments in which the wind howled around him and the sky was above him, and the earth was a blur beneath large paws. Only then he could push the darkness away and hold it at bay, feel the heavy weight lifting off his shoulders and the tendrils peeling back from his heart until his breath came freely and he neither smelled nor tasted corruption any more.

How sad it was that Bilbo still felt the need to flee, now that he was in the company of those who called themselves his friends. But he did not run from hands grasping him, not from the heat of a stinking body and teeth that bit him until he bled. He ran from knowledge, from eyes that had seen the truth and now showed pity, from whispering of the corruption running through his veins. And it felt like he could never run far enough, that always, always people would know as soon as they saw him walking past. _That's the Orc Lord,_ they would say. _The one Azog took and made his mate_.

Bilbo shuddered and clenched his hands to fists until he tore at the fur he was holding onto, and his warg whined silently. Startled, the Hobbit loosened his grip and leaned in to whisper into the pointy ear, “ _stop._ ” Immediately, the beast slowed down and halted, and the Hobbit on its back combed his hands through the silver coat before he looked at his surroundings. The Mirkwood was a dark wall to his left, black shadows melting the trees' outlines together until it was impossible to tell one from the other. In his back, the Lonely Mountain was a silhouette against the sky, looming in the distance, and Bilbo realised, amazed, that they must have been riding for hours already to be this far away from Erebor. Behind it, the horizon began to turn into a soft red line.

Sighing, the Hobbit slipped off his mount's back and reached for his drinking skin to pour some of it into his cupped hand and let the warg drink it. Zukbul and Obduf had let their own wargs fall into a lazy trot, allowing their Lord to send them away before they had the chance to come too near and disturb him, but Bilbo saw no reason to keep to himself any longer and therefore let them approach him further. They had to return to Erebor soon, lest the others thought he had gone lost or worse, Azog had found him again. The thought alone made him shudder, and he climbed back on top his warg, telling it to carry him back to the mountain looming in the distance. 

 

 

The Lady Galadriel walked through Lothlórien, her bare feet making no sound, not even a whisper on the green grass of her home, and in her hands she carried a silver jug of water so carefully not a single drop of it was spilled on her way to the mirror. Since she had talked to Mithrandir in Rivendell, she had come to seek its council often, looking into past, present and future as the surface had cleared of the ripples, and what she had seen had left her deeply concerned. In the beginning, her mirror had shown her Mithrandir, travelling with the Dwarves and fighting the Goblins of Goblin-town, but soon the images had changed, drawing away from the company and bringing her into the caverns of the Misty Mountains where the Orcs resided, lead by the Pale Orc Azog. Sadness had filled her when she had seen the small creature curled in on itself in a corner, tortured and miserable, blond curls dirty and dull, skin marked with differing kinds of scars.

The Hobbit had fallen into the hands of the Defiler, and what had been done to the young Baggins she was not able to voice out loud, too cruel the things that had happened to be described in the language of her kind. Galadriel had wept with sympathy as she witnessed how the peaceful creature changed beneath Azog's treatment, his corruption bleeding into the Hobbit and creating something Middle Earth had never seen; an Orc Lord with a kind heart that even Morgoth's poison could not touch. Yet it came close enough, erecting a wall around the parts of the creature's mind that still belonged to the Shire, filling the rest with dark thoughts and the wish for vengeance until the lines of his face became hard and his demands for blood unforgiving, asking for heads where before he had feared to even wield a weapon. It seemed as if the corruption brought to these lands so long ago still had no boundaries, seeking and finding even the most peaceful people to turn them.

But there was still hope. She saw it in the way the Hobbit could show affection and create friendship were before had only been hate and fear. With his help, she thought, the dark storm that was drawing nearer to the Lonely Mountain could be stopped. Azog and his armies were looming in the distance, bringing war closer to the doorsteps of Elves, Men and Dwarves alike with every mile they marched. Galadriel had to see the future tonight.

With care she poured water from the silver jug into the basin, the surface rippling with small waves, calming slowly until it was still again, no wind able to tug on it. Fires and shadows swirled, creating fleeting images before they settled on the Defiler's cruel face, mouth opened wide in a war cry, the battle already raging around him, enemies and allies falling at his feet. He was waiting for the son of Thrain, Thorin with his Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, and he came, his hatred for the Pale Orc too great to keep him out of his reach. They fought, weapons clashing and blades cutting, and for some time they were equals. But then Azog threw the Dwarven king to the ground, raising his weapon to bring it down on him and end his life.

It was then that the Hobbit came to collect his payment. 

Riding on his silver warg, he attacked, and Azog was overwhelmed by the beasts weight, plummeting to the blood-soaked ground while large jaws snapped for his throat, and Galadriel watched as Orc and warg struggled for the upper hand, the Hobbit clinging to the silver pelt, Elven sword glowing blue with the presence of the Orcs. But Azog was strong, and he threw his mate's mount off and on top its rider, burying the small creature beneath the great wolf's weight. With horror, the Lady saw the Defiler walking up to the pile of fur-covered muscle, the Hobbit trying to find a way out from beneath it's crushing heaviness, forehead smeared with blood where he had been cut, and Azog raised his weapon once again, this time to bring it down on a different foe.

The jug slipped from her numb fingers and fell into the mirror, destroying the scene before she had to witness its vile end, and she held on to the basin's edge tightly, her chest hurting with the shards of her crushed hope. 

 

 

“I will not give away the Arkenstone!” The shout rang through Erebor's halls, allowing no contradiction, and Thorin's chest heaved with the heavy breaths he was taking. Some of the Dwarves nodded, others hunched their shoulders and went on with their business, not willing to get in the way of the fight between their king and the wizard. Gandalf, however, seemed unimpressed by the outburst, leaning onto his staff, bushy eyebrows drawn together beneath the brim of his pointy hat. 

“You are a fool, Thorin Oakenshield, if you attribute more importance to a precious stone than to your own life,” he said, straightening his back to loom over the Dwarf, his frown deepening the creases in his forehead. 

“The Arkenstone is not only a simple precious stone. It's the sign of my rule over Erebor, and I will sooner die than see it in the hands of an Elf!”

The wizard sighed, rubbing a hand over his brows. “That, my dear Thorin, is more likely to happen than you might think if you do not find a way to convince Elves and Men to help you. They will be tearing it from your dead fingers if you insist on being as stubborn as you are now!” Thorin crossed his arms over his chest, not willing to give in and lose everything his father and grandfather had achieved. The Arkenstone belonged to the King under the Mountain and neither Elves nor Men had a claim on it.

“What is going on?” The Hobbit had returned and walked up to them, cheeks red from the cold bite of the wind blowing over the desolation surrounding the mountain, and Gandalf turned towards him, face immediately softening, and he said, “Ah, Bilbo, you are back. I hope you had a pleasant ride?”

“Yes, a rather refreshing one, in fact. But I had hoped to return to find you having come to an agreement on the matter of payment.” Bilbo crossed his arms over his chest like Thorin, head tilting to the side as his eyes flickered from the wizard to the Dwarf, waiting for an explanation, and Thorin forced himself to let his arms fall to his sides, hands clenching and opening again with the anger inside him. “We would have come to an agreement by now if the Elves wouldn't ask for the impossible to happen,” he hissed insistently, and the Hobbit laughed, a short, dry and humourless sound that was accompanied by the shake of a head. “Impossible you say it is, but it's far from that. You simply have to give it to the Elven King in exchange for the service of his armies.”

Thorin took a step forward, bringing them closer together, his blue eyes cold and piercing. “You do not understand, Master Baggins.”

“Oh yes, I do.” Bilbo's eyes narrowed, and something dangerous could be seen in the darkness of the green orbs, something raw and vile. His voice was cold when he went on, “You are the one who does not understand. If you fight this war without their help, you will lose everything—your precious Arkenstone, your Mountain and your Kingdom will be taken from you at Azog's hand. And in the end, you will not even have your head, because it will be dangling from the gates as a warning and a token of victory.” He had not even raised his voice, but his words were still followed by an eerie silence, Dwarves finally abandoning their business, frozen in their movements as the words sank in, and they thought of Azanulbizar, of Thrain's head held up by the Pale Orc's hand for everyone to see. With dread they imagined a similar head with darker hair, mouth slack and blue eyes empty, hanging from the gates' breastwork for the world to become witness to Azog's victory, and their hearts dropped with a weight so heavy they had nothing to compare it to. Only Thorin himself seemed to be confident in the help they would receive from his cousin, so he spoke into the silence, “Dáin will come, and with him his armies. Dwarves are a strong folk, unlike Hobbits. We are taught to fight even before we become adults, the lessons hard and rigorous to make us as strong as the stone we come from.”

A murmur of agreement went through the group of Dwarves, and Gandalf watched silently as the argument went on between Dwarven king and Orc Lord.   
“I do not doubt it,” Bilbo agreed and nodded, acknowledging the Dwarf's words. “But Orcs claw their way out of the womb with a sword in hand. They are reckless and bloodthirsty. Honour is is a word without meaning to them, and you know it, you fought them before.” He turned his head to the side, squinting his eyes shut before opening them again, his hands clenching so hard the knuckles turned white. When he spoke again, the words came reluctantly, pressed through the barrier of clenched teeth out into the open. “When I arrived in the Orc caves, I was wounded and unconscious. Had I been chosen by any other Orc to be their pet, I would have woken up to them slicing me open to eat.” 

Horror was visible on the bearded faces, even Thorin's determined frown was falling more with every word, slipping from his features to be replaced by dread over the testimony of the Orcs' cruel, despicable ways. Guzmog walked up to his lord, and Bilbo nodded shortly at him, but went on with a tremor to his voice, “meek and helpless and pudgy as I was, I would have been a welcome dinner. However, not one dared touching me. Not a single one, even though I was easy prey. They scurried away, turned their heads, cowered in fear, but not from me. They fear Azog. More than anything else, and every day they spend under his rule is a day they have to fear losing their lives at his hand. 

“As long as Azog is with them, they will fight until their last drop of blood is shed, because anything you do to them is nothing next to the terrible ways of the Defiler.”

A long pause followed in which heads sunk and shoulders hunched, and when Thorin broke the silence, his voice was careful. “So we have to kill Azog and end his rule. And when he falls, the Orcs will flee?”

Bilbo shook his head and took a deep breath, trembling hands combing through the curls on his head. He felt sick, his stomach churning and bile rising to his throat with the memories of the time in the belly of the Misty Mountains, the images vivid and sharp, making his skin prickle as if the hungry gazes he had felt resting on him before were still there, reducing him to a tasty piece of meat. Yet those looks had been preferable over the ones of Azog. They had lacked the fire of the pale stare the Defiler had only ever shown him, lacked the gruesome lust the Hobbit had not been able to hide from. Not only once, he had wished they would get their ways and end his torture, because everything was better than the hours spent in Azog's chamber. “You cannot reach him in the midst of his armies. And facing him alone, Thorin, would be a foolish deed, you should know.” 

Thorin opened his mouth to protest, but Bilbo talked over him, “and even when he falls, they will find a new chief to lead them, someone worthy.”

“An Orc Lord,” Gandalf chimed in, levelling a gaze at the Hobbit that was heavy with meaning. “One that has proven his worth to them before, has earned the loyalty of his guard not only by showing his skill with a sword, but with the strength of his heart.” He gestured to the group of Orcs standing not far away with curiosity glinting in their eyes, taking in their form with the sweep of his hand, and everyone able to understand Westron turned to Bilbo Baggins, Orc Lord and Hobbit, standing in their midst.

“No,” he protested, tongue heavy and throat tight, clenching around the words. “I could not—“

“Do not underestimate yourself, Bilbo,” Gandalf said, leaning in, ancient and wise eyes intense and unblinking as they regarded him. “You are courageous, and were you the one to slay Azog in battle, many will follow you without doubt. He made you one of them, and you can use it against him!”

“No.” The Hobbit choked on the simple syllable, more of them dropping from his lips in a stream of breathless gasps as he shook his head violently, curls flying every which way. “No, no, no, no. You cannot ask that of me!” While he backed away, his voice rose to a high-pitched shriek, green eyes wide with fear, and he did not say all of what he meant; _you cannot ask me to become one of them_.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf tried to sooth, and Thorin, who felt a twinge of pain in his chest upon seeing how upset the Hobbit was by the idea, reached out and closed his hand around the lean arm to ground and support the Halfling. It was, he would have to admit later, not one of his better ideas, for where the Dwarf meant it to be a reassuring touch, Bilbo, in his fear-shaken mind, saw it as a threat, as another pair of hands wanting to restrain and pin him down. The Hobbit tore his arm from the Dwarf's grasp, eyes wide and wild, flickering from one member of the company to the other, his shoulders hunching and spine slumping defensively, and some of them felt like they were looking at a cornered beast that lashed out at anyone who dared drawing too close, teeth bared. Bilbo's heavy breaths rung loudly in the shocked silence, and all of a sudden, his senses returned, and he remembered where he was, with whom he was, and embarrassment rushed through him with the hot urge to run and hide. Eyes dropping to the floor, he willed himself to relax, his fingers to uncurl again and his heart to return to its natural, slower rhythm.   
However, his voice was still shaking when he finally spoke, words breathless and merely a trembling whisper that made him wonder if they could even be heard. “You cannot ask this of me, Gandalf. Forgive me.”

With that, the Hobbit turned on his heels and strode off into the farthest corner of the hall, sinking into the darkness there.

 

 

Later, Thorin came to him. He left the others waiting around the fire, sending them a wordless order with his eyes that told them to stay and not interfere unless Azog himself was pounding on the great gates of Erebor. His gait was strong and determined, yet the closer he came to the Halfling sitting in the shadows, smoking his pipe, the more his steps faltered and grew hesitant until he stopped several feet away from where he could see the pale face in the darkness, only illuminated by the glow of the tobacco in the pipe's head whenever he pulled on it. The faint, red light cast eerie shadows on the already gaunt face, deepening the dark rings around the green eyes and the hollow cheeks until the Dwarf was reminded of a fleshless skull staring back at him. However, the illusion was fleeting, and he shook it off with a soft shake of his head before he found the strength to speak. 

“Bilbo,” he began, and took another step forwards, but was brought to a halt by the hoarse voice of the Hobbit. “Are you here to pity me, King under the Mountain? Or to convince me?”

To the Dwarf's dread, his voice sounded tired, almost hollow, lacking the sharp sarcasm and stubborn challenge Thorin had grown accustomed to since the Halfling had return. He wondered when he had come to appreciate it so much he was left missing it now. Bilbo's sharp tongue and willingness to confront the King over his decisions had been as tiresome as it had been refreshing. Due to his position, the Dwarf was not used to someone objecting to his decisions as much as the Hobbit had done over the past days. And if he remembered correctly, nobody else but Gandalf had dared call him a fool in a long time. That he found the headstrong Halfling to be so upset and seemingly defeated now, sat not well with the Dwarf. “Neither, Master Hobbit. I am here to apologize.”

At that, the Hobbit straightened, eyebrows raising with disbelief. “Apologize?”

“Indeed. I feel I have done you wrong by holding on to you when you clearly did not wish to be touched, considering...” Thorin trailed off, words failing him for he did not know how to go on, if he could speak of what Azog had done to the Halfling—if he could voice it aloud at all, even if he himself would be the only one to hear. Bilbo leaned in, knocking the head of the pipe out on the stone floor next to himself, his eyes focused on his hands, and they did not rise to look at the Dwarf when he said, voice bitter, “'Tis all right, Thorin. You do not need to apologize for my hysterics.”

With a sigh, the king stepped to the Hobbit's side, slipping to the ground in one fluid motion, his legs crossed. Bilbo seemed surprised, his eyebrows rising questioningly, but he shifted to the side to make room for the Dwarf and said nothing against it. Thorin did not look at him when he explained, “you might think I need not apologize, yet I want to. I cannot make undone what has happened, but know I would if I could.”

It felt even to him like he was not talking about holding the Hobbit back any longer. 

Bilbo nodded, eyes distant and lost in thought before he blinked and turned to the Dwarf, a small smile on his lips that did not quite reach his eyes, but it was a start. “Then I will accept your apology, Thorin.”

Thorin broke their gaze first and turned his head to the side, clearing his throat. His cheeks felt warmer than they had any right to be, and he was suddenly glad they were mostly concealed in shadows. However, he raised his hand hesitantly, reaching out slowly to the Hobbit's shoulder, giving him enough time to turn away if he would not want to be touched, yet Bilbo stayed as he was and did not move an inch when the large hand settled on his shoulder to squeeze reassuringly. A moment passed in which neither spoke, both staring at where Thorin's hand rested on the Halfling's shoulder.

Then it was over, and the Dwarf took his hand away, standing up again, his usually stern and grim mien returning to his face. With a nod he decided on taking his leave, but then the Hobbit's hand snapped forwards, now weapon-calloused fingers closing around the king's wrist and holding him back before he could so much as take a step away. 

“I know the Arkenstone is of great importance to you, and you hold it more dear than your life, which is within your rights. However,” Bilbo's voice took on an insistent, almost pleading edge as he continued, his fingers tightening slightly around the Dwarf's wrist, “you are gambling not only with your own life, _King under the Mountain_.”

Green eyes flickered to the side to look at something behind the king, and when Thorin turned and followed the direction the gaze had indicated, he saw the group of Dwarves sitting around their fire, telling stories and laughing while they ate, their usual cheery banter only slightly dimmed by the grave situation.

All of them, Thorin knew, would give their life for Erebor, for each other, for their king. They would not flee from battle even when they found themselves faced with ten enemies each—they would fight tooth and nail until their last drop of blood sunk into the stone beneath their feet, and they would do it knowing they earned the pride of their ancestors. They were his people, his warriors, his guards on this journey, and also his companions—but most of all, they were his friends. They were loyal, they were strong and as skilled with their weapons as with their work tools. 

When they won the battle against Azog, each of them would be a stone of the foundation Erebor would be rebuilt on, and those who fell and lost their life would return to the stone, songs and ballads reminding those left behind of their sacrifice and honourable death.

'But who will hold onto these memories if none of them is left?' a voice that sounded like the Hobbit's spoke in his head, the memory of his words coming unbidden to his mind. 'Who will sing of Erebor and its halls when there is no one to remember it, Thorin?'

The king tore his eyes away from his friends to look down at the still sitting Halfling at his feet, and Bilbo's fingers softly squeezed his wrist shortly before letting go again.

Without another word between them, the Dwarven king left to return to the others and sit down at their fire. But he did not hear their talking, did not listen to their laughter, for the Halfling's words were repeated again and again in his mind. 

 

 

When dusk came, Gandalf, Thorin and Bilbo climbed down the gates to return to the war council, and where the Dwarven king and the Orc Lord walked through the rows of tents with their guards, Men scurried away to watch from the shadows of their tent flaps or the reassuring presence of their friends. The Elves, seemed indifferent to whom or whatever came walking through their encampment at night as long as it was not foes, their eyes almost bored as they followed the small group until they vanished beneath the folds of Thranduil's tent. 

Bard arrived only moments after them, and they all sat down to begin the council anew. As expected, the fighting started after only half an hour, and Bilbo buried his face in his hands, trying desperately to shut the voices and their discussion out while Bard said that Thorin might be King _under the Mountain_ , but they were in a tent right now, whereupon Thorin replied that if that mattered, they would all have to answer to the whims of King Thranduil, and he would rather face Azog in battle naked than do so. The Elven king himself only remarked Thorin facing the Pale Orc naked or armoured would result in the same as long as Elves and Men were not properly remunerated for their troubles. The Dwarves, of course, understood the barb for what it was, and Dwalin spoke up that he would proof to the Elves that Dwarves were more capable in battle, if necessary right now. Gandalf, who believed it was time to intervene rose from chair to speak, but was stopped by the Hobbit's frustrated cry of, “you lot are worse than the Orcs!”

Silence fell immediately, and Bilbo knew he had overstepped his boundaries, yet he could not bring himself to care for he was too tired, frustrated and upset and a headache was announcing itself with a stinging behind his eyeballs. Thranduil, who had up until now lounged in his throne with one leg thrown over the armrest, sat up straighter and narrowed his eyes at the small creature, his voice calm but nevertheless cold as ice as he spoke. “Is that so, _Orc_ _Lord_ Bilbo?”

The Hobbit fought the desire to sink back into his chair and make himself as small as possible and instead straightened and squared his shoulders, his chin raised defiantly. “Indeed it is,” he said. “They might fight over anything, kill each other even over a scrap of meat, however, when the call for battle comes they unite faster than lightning strikes. And they need not be bribed with precious metal and stones to do so.”

Bard tilted his head back slightly and pursed his lips, as if considering Bilbo's words. “And yet I feel their motives are not altruistic for they seek to quench their thirst for blood and violence,” the bowman objected, one of his brows raised when he looked at the Halfling, who nodded.

“True. Their payment is the blood of others they shed. But joining the Dwarves in battle would not be selfless of you. When Azog defeats Thorin and conquers Erebor—what he will, even when Dáin arrives in time,” he levelled a meaningful gaze at the Dwarven king, who regarded him with wide eyes, still too surprised to react to what Bilbo told him and then the Hobbit turned to the others again, his eyes switching from Bard to Thranduil and back. “The next thing he does is move on to you. Neither Lake-town nor the Mirkwood will be safe, and even when you defeat him, your losses will be great.

“The safety of your peoples' homes and their lives are worth more than all the gold Erebor can offer you.”

Bilbo felt the wizard's eyes on him, and when he turned to him, he thought he saw something like amusement and praise in their blue depths, but Bard drew his attention to himself when he leaned in over the table, folding his hands on its wooden surface, his eyes boring deep into the Hobbit's as he said, “I am curious, Master Baggins. You are neither Dwarf nor man, nor Elf. Erebor isn't your home, and Thorin Oakenshield is not your king. Yet you are willing to fight at his side, when your home lies safe in the West. What is it _you_ seek as reward?”

Bilbo smiled, but it was sharp and showed too many teeth, something between a sneer and a snarl that made his eyes look dark and wild. “I am an Orc Lord, Bard, Slayer of the Dragon Smaug. You said so yourself. Have you not heard? We are paid in severed heads.”

 

 

To the north, grey storm clouds were drawing in, darkening the sky and casting shadows on the land beneath where thousands of feet stamped flowers and grass into the earth. Dark, rasping voices cried over the helmeted heads, and they were answered in kind while the armies were eating up the miles between them and their desired bloodshed. At the front, a white and monstrous warg lead them, its equally pale rider on the broad back, and his eyes were hungry, burning with a thirst only the ruby liquid could quell.

The Orcs were bringing war to the gates of Erebor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, foreboding.


End file.
